“Yes,” sighed the old fellow. “Please do not mention it,” and he turned away to the window as though to conceal his guilty countenance.
“You mean that you know something—but you won’t tell it!” Benton said.
“I know nothing,” was the old fellow’s stubborn reply.
“But you know that the young fellow, Henfrey, is guilty!” exclaimed Benton. “Come! you were there at the time! You heard high words between them—didn’t you?”
“I have already made my statement to the police,” declared the old Italian. “What else I know I shall keep to myself.”
“But I’m interested in ascertaining whether Henfrey is innocent or guilty. Only two persons can tell us that—Mademoiselle, who is, alas! in a hopeless mental state, and yourself. You know—but you refuse to incriminate the guilty person. Why don’t you tell the truth? You know that Henfrey shot her!”
“I tell you I know nothing,” retorted the old man. “Why do you come here and disturb me?” he added peevishly.
“Because I want to know the truth,” Benton answered. “And I mean to!”
“Go away!” snapped the wilful old fellow. “I’ve done with you all—all the crowd of you!”
“Ah!” laughed Benton. “Then you forget the little matter of the man Morel—eh? That is not forgotten by the police, remember!”