"Did you not endeavour to prevent me from getting a light?"
"I said, Cornelius, I could find what you were looking for, without one."
"And you said so twice—twice."
"I believe I did, twice, as you say."
"I did, scarce knowing why, an unusual thing—I locked the door, I took the key. Do you grant that whatever was done must have been done before then?"
"Yes, Cornelius."
I spoke and felt like one in a dream. Each answer fell mechanically from my lips; and yet I knew that with every word of assent, the net of evidence I could not so much as attempt to disprove, drew closer around me.
"Well," said Cornelius, in the voice of a judge sitting over a criminal, "what have you to say against facts proved by your own confession?"
"Nothing, save that I did not do it."
I spoke faintly; for my head swam and I felt so giddy that I was obliged to take hold of the back of a chair not to fall.