“Exactly what you are thinking, Sturton!” As he spoke, my lord crossed to a cabinet and, opening a drawer, came back with a brace of pistols in his hands. Now, glancing from these murderous things to the face above, James Sturton flung out wild hands and started back.
“No, no!” he cried. “Not this way, my lord; I cannot!”
“You will!” nodded my lord gently. “You know very well he walks or rides frequently to High Dering of an evening—alone! It will be simple.”
“My lord, I ... I cannot!”
“Meaning you will not?”
James Sturton stared desperately about him at floor and ceiling and walls, but never once at the speaker’s face; finally he spoke:
“I ... I cannot, my lord.”
“Ah!” said his lordship, and stood regarding Sturton with an expression of mild curiosity. “So you—refuse?”
“I do, my lord!” mumbled the wretched man.
“Knowing that I can hang you for the murderer you already are? Still, you—refuse?”