“But, Sir Terence,” cried Tremayne, “I give you my word—I swear to you—that I know absolutely nothing of how Samoval met his death.”
“What were you doing here?” O’Moy asked again, and this time the sinister, menacing note of derision vibrated clearly in the question.
Tremayne for the first time in his honest, upright life found himself deliberately choosing between truth and falsehood. The truth would clear him—since with that truth he would produce witnesses to it, establishing his movements completely. But the truth would send a man to his death; and so for the sake of that man’s life he was driven into falsehood.
“I was on my way to see you,” he said.
“At midnight?” cried Sir Terence on a note of grim doubt. “To what purpose?”
“Really, Sir Terence, if my word is not sufficient, I refuse to submit to cross-examination.”
Sir Terence turned to the sergeant of the guard, “How long is it since Captain Tremayne arrived?” he asked.
The sergeant stood to attention. “Captain Tremayne, sir, arrived rather more than half-an-hour ago. He came in a curricle, which is still waiting at the gates.”
“Half-an-hour ago, eh?” said Sir Terence, and from Colquhoun Grant there was a sharp and audible intake of breath, expressive either of understanding, or surprise, or both. The adjutant looked at Tremayne again. “As my questions seem only to entangle you further,” he said, “I think you had better do as I suggest without more protests: report yourself under arrest to Colonel Fletcher in the morning, sir.”
Still Tremayne hesitated for a moment. Then drawing himself up, he saluted curtly. “Very well, sir,” he replied.