Whoever had played foul,—if it could only be proved against him,—would be regarded as the man who ought to have drawn the red button; and would be treated as if he had done so. This was tacitly understood; even before the suggestion of such a course had passed the lips of anyone. Those who were innocent were of course desirous of discovering the “black sheep,”—in order to escape the danger of a second drawing,—and, as these comprehended almost the entire crew, it was natural that an attentive ear should be given to the statement which the Irishman proposed to lay before them.
All stood gazing upon him with expectant eyes. In those of Le Gros and his confederate there was a different expression. The look of the Frenchman was more especially remarkable. His jaws had fallen; his lips were white and bloodless; his eyes glared fiend-like out of their sunken sockets; while the whole cast of his features was that of a man threatened with some fearful and infamous fate, which he feels himself unable to avert.
Chapter Seventy One.
Le Gros upon Trial.
As O’Gorman gave utterance to the last words of his preparatory speech, he fixed his eyes steadfastly upon the Frenchman. His look confirmed every one in the belief that the allusion had been to the latter.
Le Gros at first quailed before the Irishman’s glance; but, perceiving the necessity of putting a bold front on the matter, he made an endeavour to reciprocate it.
“Sacré bleu!” he exclaimed. “Monsieur Irlandais why do you look at me? you don’t mean to insinuate that I’ve acted unfairly?”
“The divil a bit,” replied the Irishman. “If it’s insinivation yez be talkin’ about, the divil a bit ov that do I mane. Larry O’Gorman isn’t agoin’ to bate about the bush wan way or the tother, Misther Laygrow. He tells ye to yer teeth that it was yer beautiful self putt the exthra button into the bag,—yez did it, Misther Laygrow, and nobody else.”