“But you yourself committed the outrage?”
“At the orders of others.”
“Whose orders?”
He did not reply. He was standing against the small, cheap chest of drawers, his drawn face full in the light of the hissing gas-jet.
“Come,” said Hartwig firmly. “I wish to know this.”
“I cannot tell you.”
“Then I will tell you,” the detective said in a hard voice. “It was at the orders of your master, General Markoff—the man who, finding that you were a revolutionist, is using you as his tool for the manufacture of bogus plots against the Emperor.”
Danilovitch shrugged his shoulders, but uttered no word.
“And you went again to Brighton last night at his orders. You—”
“I went to Brighton, I admit. But not at the General’s orders,” he interrupted quickly.