“Oh, Fred, dear Fred,” cried Claire passionately, “how could you charge yourself with that dreadful crime?”
“How?” he said faintly. “Because it must have been true. The poor old man saw me there, and found my knife upon the carpet.”
“It is impossible,” sobbed Claire.
“I thought so once,” replied the wounded man, “but I suppose it’s true. I often used to think of the old woman’s jewels, and how useful they’d be. It seemed so easy, too, the way up there—eh, Morton?”
“Yes, yes; but don’t talk like that. Some scoundrel must have seen me climb up, and have gone there that night.”
“Yes,” said Fred feebly, “some scoundrel who knew the way, but who, in his drunkenness, did not know what he did, and that scoundrel was I.”
“No, no, Fred!” cried Claire.
“If you did it,” said Morton quickly, “what became of the diamonds?”
“The diamonds, lad?”
“Yes. Did you have the jewels and sell them?”