“The dead man found in the Burnham library,” volunteered Mitchell. “This morning, Captain La Montagne, Mr. Burnham made the statement that you were responsible for the man’s death.”
“I responsible!” La Montagne in his astonishment stepped backward on the narrow platform and but for Maynard would have lost his balance and fallen off the step and down the circular staircase to the floor below. “Mon Dieu! you are not sane!”
“Yes, I am,” responded Mitchell, nettled by La Montagne’s contemptuous smile. “Mr. Burnham preferred the charges against you.”
At Burnham’s name La Montagne’s surprise changed to indignation. “And does he dare to go to such lengths in his hatred as to accuse me, a cadet of a noble house, of a crime so base!” With a violent effort La Montagne controlled his temper. “Upon what grounds does he make such a charge?” he inquired more calmly.
“That he had an appointment to meet you Monday night in his house and that he sent you his latch-key to get in with, so that you would not have to wait outside the house for him,” explained Mitchell, watching carefully to see the effect of his words. But his long statement had given the Frenchman time to pull himself together, and he was master of his feelings as he answered.
“I had the appointment,” he stated. “But I did not keep it.”
“Why not?” demanded Mitchell.
“Because I lost my way in the storm—you recall the storm of Monday——” Mitchell mumbled a reluctant “yes,” and La Montagne continued rapidly. “I am not familiarly acquainted with your circles and streets, and I lost my way in the blinding rain and hail. I wandered about for many weary hours, and returned to my hotel drenched to the skin.”
Mitchell stared at him. “Have you any witnesses to prove your statement?” he asked, and the Frenchman flushed hotly.
“My word, monsieur, is good——”