“But it is a terribly grave thing to take human life—to send a man to his death without trial.”
“I have seen so many men die, Crewe, that death seems to me but a little thing. If a man deserves death, if he knows himself that he deserves it a hundredfold, why waste time in proving it to others? If I had shot Brett I should doubtless have had to stand my trial for murder. But if the police searched all over England could they have found a jury who would convict me if I saw fit to tell my story in the dock? Told by a man in the dock it would carry conviction; but told by a man in the witness-box at a court martial it might not.”
“I believe there is some truth in that,” said Crewe, in a firm, quiet voice. “But it is a matter which must be put to the test.”
Marsland stood up and fixed on him an intent gaze.
“What do you mean?” he said. “If Brett is dead he died by accident—by a fall over the cliff. The law cannot touch me.”
The detective did not speak, but his eyes held the young man’s glance intently for a moment, and then traveled slowly to the portrait of Frank Lumsden on the wall.
“I mean that,” he said slowly.
“Do you know all?” Marsland asked, in a voice which was little more than a whisper.
“I know that it was you who shot Frank Lumsden.”
“Yes, I shot him!” The young man sprang to his feet and uttered the words in a loud, excited tone which rang through the empty house. “And so little do I regret what I have done, that if I had the chance to recall the past I would not falter—I would shoot him again.”