"Here," said Conniston, giving him another shake, "stop that rubbish, you young beast. You dare to say such things of my aunt, who has been so kind to you. Hanging is too good for such a scamp. Come along, and answer our questions."
But Jerry, grovelling on the floor, embraced Conniston's riding-boots in an agony of terror. "Oh, please," he whimpered, "I didn't mean to do any harm. Mr. Beryl gave me some white stuff and told me to give it in tea to the sick gentleman. I thought it would do him good!"
With great disgust Dick picked up the young liar in his arms and carried him kicking to the sitting-room, followed by Bernard. When the door was closed, Bernard locked it, and there was no chance of Jerry getting away, as the window was thirty feet from the ground. Gore took a seat in one arm-chair and Conniston threw himself into the other, after flinging Jerry on the hearth-rug. The boy lay there, kicking and howling, nearly out of his wits with terror.
"Shut up!" said Dick, sharply. "You have to answer questions."
"I sha'n't," said Jerry. "You'll hang me."
"There's no chance of that, worse luck," said Conniston, regretfully.
On hearing this, the boy sat up. "Isn't he dead?" he asked eagerly.
"Oh!" mocked Bernard, "and you thought the white stuff would do the sick gentleman good—you young scoundrel! No. He isn't dead, Lord Conniston says, but small thanks to you."
"Oh!" Jerry seemed at once relieved and disappointed. "I won't get the two thousand pounds now."
"And you won't be hanged either, though you richly deserve it."