“Because I want to know when you killed Mrs. Trevor,” he bluntly replied.
The detective’s meaning dawned slowly upon de Moray’s mind; then he leaped to his feet with an oath, his handsome eyes flashing with fury.
“Pardieu!” he cried. “You dare—you dare—” Not able to express his indignation in his limited English, he burst into French.
Tom tried to stem the torrent of his words by addressing him in his native tongue, while Dick and Hardy stood hopelessly looking on, but de Morny would not be appeased.
“I—I—” he began, lapsing into broken English, “I—a de Morny—am accused by a pig of an Americaine of a crime so foul! Bah!” Then, mastering his rage by a great effort, he asked more calmly, “May I ask Monsieur for his reasons of a charge so monstrous?”
“Certainly,” said Hardy. “You were heard to threaten her—”
“I, Monsieur?” in great astonishment.
“Yes; I overheard you do so at Mrs. Macallister’s,” interrupted Tom.
De Morny looked at him with an enigmatic smile. “So!” was his only comment.
“You cannot give a satisfactory account of your whereabouts on February third between the hours of ten and one in the morning; at least you haven’t yet.”