“What I want from you, and what you must give me,” said Lionel, “is a full and particular account of how this ring came into your possession. It belonged to Percy Osmond, and it was on his finger the night he was murdered.” “Ah ciel! how do you know that?” “It is enough that what I say is true, and that you cannot gainsay it. But this ring was not on the finger of the murdered man when he was found next morning. Tell me how it came into your possession.” For a moment or two Janvard did not speak. Then he said, sulkily: “Who are you that come here under false pretences, and question me and threaten me in this way?” “I am not here to answer your questions. You are here to answer mine.” “What if I refuse to answer them?” “In that case the four walls of a prison will hold you in less than half an hour. In your possession I find a ring which was on the finger of Mr. Osmond the night he was murdered. Less than that has brought many a better man than you to the gallows: be careful that it does not land you there?” “If you know anything of the affair at all, you must know that the murderer of Mr. Osmond was tried and found guilty long ago.” “What proof have you—what proof was there adduced at the trial, that Lionel Dering was the murderer of Percy Osmond? Did your eyes, or those of any one else, see him do the bloody deed? Wretch! You knew from the first that he was innocent! If you yourself are not the murderer, you know the man who is.” Again Janvard was silent for a little while. His eyes were bent on the floor. He was considering deeply within himself. At length he spoke, but it was in the same sullen tone that he had used before. “What guarantee have I that when I have told you anything that I may know, the information will not be used against me to my own harm?” “You have no guarantee whatever. I could not give you any such promise. For aught I know to the contrary, you, and you alone, may be the murderer of Percy Osmond.” Janvard shuddered slightly. “I am not the murderer of Percy Osmond,” he said quietly. “Who, then, was the murderer?” “My late master—Mr. Kester St. George.” 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.