His eyes twinkled merrily at the recollection of Vernet in the cellar trap, and he suppressed a laugh with difficulty.
Again Vernet reddened and bit his under lip.
“Oh, you have outwitted me,” he said bitterly, “but you will never be able to prove it was not Warburton who personated the Sailor that night.”
“I won’t try, for it was Warburton. I shall not explain his presence there, however; it was a mistake on his part, but he meant well. It was not he who did the killing.”
“You are bent on clearing Warburton, but how will you prove his innocence?”
“By a witness who saw Papa Francoise strike the blow.”
“Who?”
“A girl known as Rag-picker Nance. She was in the custody of the Francoises when I made my appearance among them, in the character of Franz. They were afraid of her and kept her drugged and drunk constantly. They wanted to be rid of her, and I took her off their hands one dark night—the same night, by the by, that came so near being your last, in that burning tenement. Heavens! but that old woman is a tigress! In spite of me, she managed to fire the building. It came near being the end of you.”
Vernet turned and eyed him sharply.
“Was it you,” he asked, “who brought me out?”