“I certainly will tell the truth,” I began.
What possessed that unlucky voice of mine to quaver in the way it did? Those few words, I was convinced, would tell more against me than the most circumstantial narrative. I clutched hold of the back of a chair near me, and made a desperate effort to steady myself as I proceeded. I gave an exact account of everything that had happened since I entered the office that morning, omitting nothing, glossing over nothing, shirking nothing. They both listened attentively, eyeing me keenly all the time, and betraying no sign in their faces whether they believed me or not.
“Then you mean to say,” said Mr Merrett, when it was done, “that you were not in this room at all?”
“Yes, I never entered it.”
“Were you ever in this room without our knowledge?”
“Yes, a fortnight ago. Smith and I were here early, and hearing a noise inside, we opened the door and came in to see what it was.”
“What did you find?”
“Hawkesbury, working at the table where Mr Barnacle is now sitting.”
“What occurred?”
I related precisely what had occurred, repeating as nearly as I could the very words that had been used.