“I have said it. How can I take her innocent hand?”
“Because you know nothing,” cried Stratton excitedly; “because you shall know nothing. One is enough to bear a crime, if crime it was.”
“Ah! You confess!” cried Guest; “then you did—kill him.”
Stratton made no reply, but looked firmly and sorrowfully in his eyes.
“I knew it—I was sure—your manner betrayed you when we were in that room. I see all, now. You closed that door.”
“I will not be dragged into any confession,” said Stratton fiercely. “It is my secret, and I will tell it to none. I have a right to keep my own counsel. You have a right to denounce me if you like. If you speak, you can force me to no greater punishment than I suffer now.”
“Then it is all true?” groaned Guest. “You killed him, and hid him there?”
Stratton uttered a mocking laugh.
“That door!” said Guest huskily. “Twice over you have stopped me from going there. Your manner has been that of a guilty man, and I am forced to share the knowledge of your crime.”
“No,” said Stratton, speaking now with a look of calm contempt; “you share no knowledge—you shall share no knowledge. You say I killed him and hid him there; where are your proofs? You have brought in the police, and they have searched. What have you found? Again, I say, where are your proofs?”