"And," asked Dantin, with a vehemence which made the registrar's thin hand tremble as it flew over the paper, "what do you understand?"
"Pardon," said M. Ginory; "you are not here to put questions, but to answer those which are asked you. It is certain that a vow which binds the holder of a secret is a means of defence, but the accused have, by making common use of it, rendered it useless."
The Magistrate noticed the almost menacing frown with which Dantin looked at him at the words, "the accused."
"The accused?" said the man, turning in his chair. "Am I one of the accused?" His voice was strident, almost strangled.
"I do not know that," said M. Ginory, in a very calm tone; "I say that you wish to keep your secret, and it is a claim which I do not admit."
"I repeat, Monsieur le Juge, that the secret is not mine."
"It is no longer a secret which can remain sacred here. A murder has been committed, a murderer is to be found, and everything you know you ought to reveal to justice."
"But if I give you my word of honor that it has not the slightest bearing on the matter—with the death of Rovère?"
"I shall tell my registrar to write your very words in reply—he has done it—I shall continue to question you, precisely because you speak to me of a secret which has been confided to you and which you refuse to disclose to me. Because you do refuse?"
"Absolutely!"