There was a pause which no one seemed inclined to break. Although Janvard’s words were but a confirmation of the suspicions which Lionel and Tom had all along entertained, they seemed to fall on their ears with all the force of a startling revelation. Of the three men there, Janvard was the one who seemed least concerned.
Lionel was the first to speak. “This is a serious charge to make against a gentleman like Mr. St. George,” he said.
“I have made no charge against Mr. St. George,” said Janvard. “It is you who have forced the confession from me.”
“You are doubtless prepared to substantiate your statement—to prove your words?”
“I do not want to prove anything. I want to hold my tongue, but you will not let me.”
“All I want from you is the simple truth, and that you must tell me.”
“But, monsieur——” began Janvard, appealingly, and then he stopped.
“You are afraid, and justly so. You are in my power, and I can use that power in any way that I may deem best. At the same time, understand me. I am no constable—no officer of the law—I am simply the brother of Lionel Dering, and knowing, as I do, that he was accused and found guilty of a crime of which he was as innocent as I am, I have vowed that I will not rest night or day till I have discovered the murderer and brought him to justice. Such being the case, I tell you plainly that the best thing you can do is to make a full and frank confession of all that you know respecting this terrible business, leaving it for me afterwards to decide as to the use which I may find it requisite to make of your confession. Are you prepared to do what I ask of you?”
Janvard’s shoulders rose and fell again. “I cannot help myself,” he said. “I have no choice but to comply with the wishes of monsieur.”
“Sensibly spoken. Try another glass of wine. It may help to refresh your memory.”