“So you really are innocent?” he said, after a pause.
David Hume rose from his chair, and reached for his hat, gloves, and stick.
“You have crushed my remaining hope of emancipation,” he exclaimed bitterly. “You have the repute of being able to pluck the heart out of a mystery, Mr. Brett, so when you assume that I am guilty—”
“I have assumed nothing of the kind. You seem to possess the faculty of self-control. Kindly exercise it, and answer my questions, Did you kill your cousin?”
“No.”
“Who did kill him?”
“I do not know.”
“Do you suspect anybody?”
“Not in the remotest degree.”
“Did he kill himself?”