“You are not my judge!”
“The man accused had no motives for murdering Jack Fothergill—you had.”
“Motives do not convict in France, even if they do in England.”
“But evidence of the crime does.”
“Evidence—I—I—”
Looking steadily for a few moments into his thin face, drawn and haggard, I said at last—
“It is useless to deny your guilt, M’sieur de Largentière. The proof you have in your hand, in combination with the alibi that the man suspected will be able to prove, is quite sufficient to secure your conviction. The punishment for murder is death in my country, as in yours.”
“I—I deny it,” he said, with a strange, wild look of mingled fear and indignation. “Your so-called proof is mere waste paper. It would not be accepted in evidence.”
“I hold a different opinion. Remember the letter was posted and the envelope bears the post-mark. It was written by Fothergill himself, and bears his signature.”
“Let me see it.”