"By all means," said Fanks. "Let me ask you, Dr. Binjoy, what you were doing at Dr. Turnor's in Great Auk Street on the night of the twenty-first?"
Binjoy went pale again, and stammered out a denial. "I was not in town on that night," he protested. "I was attending on Sir Louis, who was ill. I never left the house at Taxton-on-Thames."
"Oh, yes, you did. You went up with Sir Louis."
"Prove it, prove it," gasped Binjoy, with white lips.
"I can prove it by the mouth of Mrs. Jerusalem. She saw you leave; she saw Sir Louis return alone."
"A lie! A lie!"
"It is not a lie, and you know it. It is time to have done with this farce, Dr. Binjoy. I know who you are. I know all about your impersonation and disguise. I know why you called yourself Renshaw. I traced you to Plymouth and saw you disembark; I followed you to this place, and now I have you."
Binjoy stared wildly for a moment at seeing his mask of lies fall away from him, and then sank back in his chair with a shiver, moaning and crying. "It is a lie, a lie," was all he could gasp.
"It is not a lie," said a voice at the door, and Fanks turned to see Sir Louis. "It is not a lie," repeated the baronet. "Binjoy is Renshaw; he went up with me to town on the night of the twenty-first. If you want to know who killed my cousin, Mr. Fanks, there is the assassin."