He unfolded the letter and ran his eyes down the second page, mumbling:
“A broken-down old man. . . . Passes himself off as mad. . . . Always goes about in a comforter and a pair of large yellow spectacles. . . .”
Dr. Géradec ceased reading and looked at Siméon with an air of amazement. Both of them sat for a moment without speaking. Then the doctor said:
“You are Siméon Diodokis.”
The other did not protest. All these incidents were so strangely and, at the same time, so naturally interlinked as to persuade him that lying was useless.
“This alters the situation,” declared the doctor. “The time for trifling is past. It’s a most serious and terribly dangerous matter for me, I can tell you! You’ll have to make it a million.”
“Oh, no!” cried Siméon, excitedly. “Certainly not! Besides, I never touched Mme. Mosgranem. I was myself attacked by the man who strangled her, the same man—a negro called Ya-Bon—who caught me up and took me by the throat.”
“Ya-Bon? Did you say Ya-Bon?”
“Yes, a one-armed Senegalese.”
“And did you two fight?”