He picked up a scrap of newspaper from the table and held it before my eyes, deliberately turning up the oil-lamp wick that I might read it. I recognized it at once. It was the clipping from the newspaper, descriptive of the murdered man, which I had cut out in the train and placed in my pocketbook.
"You dropped this, my friend, when you pulled out your check-book," said Simon. "You are a very poor conspirator, Paul Hewlett. Assuredly I would not have you on my side at any price. Well?"
"Well?" I repeated mechanically.
"Who killed him?" he shouted.
He shook the paper before my eyes and then he struck me across the face with it.
"Who killed Louis d'Epernay?" he yelled, and Jacqueline screamed in fear.
"I did," I answered after a moment.