“But you did not say this at the inquest.”
“My lips were closed.”
“But, father, you do not—”
“Silence, hypocrite! Enough of this. I could not speak. I dare not tell the world the murderer was my own son.”
Fred Denville drew himself erect. His father rose from the bed, and the two men stood gazing for some minutes in each other’s eyes without a word.
It was the Master of the Ceremonies who broke the spell.
“Now,” he said, “I have spoken. It is enough. Your secret is safe with me. Go. Repent, but do not ask me to forgive you. Ask that of Heaven. I am old and broken, and can die.”
“But, father!” groaned Fred wildly, “it was not I.”
“It was my eldest son. I saw him as he struggled with me—in his uniform, and I picked up afterwards from the floor his knife—his pocket-knife that had been used to wrench open the casket of jewels. The knife with ‘RM’ on the handle. It was given to my son by the fisherman, Miggles.”
“Yes, Dick gave me that knife years ago,” said Fred, speaking like one who has received a tremendous blow. “I have not seen it since that night.”