“Mille diables! I am betrayed!” cried Janvard, as he started from his seat, and made a snatch at the ring. But Lionel was too quick for him. The ring had disappeared, but Janvard had it not.
He turned with a snarl like that of a wild animal brought to bay, and looked towards the door. But between him and the door now stood Tom Bristow, no longer with any signs of inebriety about him, but as cold, quiet, and collected as ever he had looked in his life. Tom’s right hand was hidden in the bosom of his vest, and Janvard’s ears were smitten by the ominous click of a revolver. His eyes wandered back to the stern dark face of Lionel. There was no hope for him there. The pallor of his face deepened. His wonderful nerve for once was beginning to desert him. He was trembling visibly.
“Sit down, sir,” said Lionel, sternly, “and refresh yourself with another glass of wine. I have something of much importance to say to you.”
The Frenchman hesitated for a moment. Then he shrugged his shoulders and sat down. His sang-froid was coming back to him. He drank two glasses of wine rapidly one after another.
“I am ready, monsieur,” he said, quietly, as he wiped his thin lips, and made a ghastly effort to smile. “At your service.”
“What I want from you, and what you must give me,” said Lionel, “is a full and particular account of how this ring came into your possession. It belonged to Percy Osmond, and it was on his finger the night he was murdered.”
“Ah ciel! how do you know that?”
“It is enough that what I say is true, and that you cannot gainsay it. But this ring was not on the finger of the murdered man when he was found next morning. Tell me how it came into your possession.”
For a moment or two Janvard did not speak. Then he said, sulkily: “Who are you that come here under false pretences, and question me and threaten me in this way?”
“I am not here to answer your questions. You are here to answer mine.”