The Sin That Was His

by Frank L. Packard

“Yes,” said the other. “Henri Mentone—is that my name?”

“Do you not know!”—Raymond's tone was suddenly sharp, incisive.

“No,” the other answered. “No, I cannot remember.” He reached out his arms imploringly to Raymond again. “Oh, monsieur, what does it mean? I do not know where I am—I do not know how I came here.”

“You are in the presbytère at St. Marleau,” said Raymond, still sharply. Was it true; or was the man simply magnificent in duplicity? No—there could be no reason, no valid reason for the man to play a part?—no reason why he should have withheld his story from Dupont. It was not logical. He, Raymond, who alone knew all the story, knew that. It must be true—but he dared not yet drop his guard. He must be sure—his life depended on his being sure. He was speaking again—uncompromisingly: “You were picked up unconscious on the road by the tavern during the storm three nights ago—you remember the storm, of course?”

Again that piteously troubled look was on the other's face.

“No, monsieur, I do not remember,” he said tremulously.

“Well, then,” persisted Raymond, “before the storm—you surely remember that! Where you came from? Where you lived? Your people?”

“Where I came from, my—my people”—the man repeated the words automatically. He swept his hand across his bandaged head. “It is gone,” he whispered miserably. “I—it is gone. There—there is nothing. I do not remember anything except a girl in this room saying she would run for the curé, and then that man came in.” A new trouble came into his eyes. “That man—you said he was a police officer—why was he here? And—you have not told me yet—why should he ask me questions?”

There was still a card to play. Raymond leaned again over the man.

“All this will not help you,” he said sternly. “Far better that you should confide in me! The proof against you is overwhelming. You are already condemned. You murdered Théophile Blondin that night, and stole Mother Blondin's money. Mother Blondin struck you that blow upon the head as you ran from the house. You were found on the road; and in your pockets was Mother Blondin's money—and her son's revolver, with which you shot him. In a word, you are under arrest for murder.”