“You are afraid, and justly so. You are in my power, and I can use that power in any way that I may deem best. At the same time, understand me. I am no constable—no officer of the law—I am simply the brother of Lionel Dering, and knowing, as I do, that he was accused and found guilty of a crime of which he was as innocent as I am, I have vowed that I will not rest night or day till I have discovered the murderer and brought him to justice. Such being the case, I tell you plainly that the best thing you can do is to make a full and frank confession of all that you know respecting this terrible business, leaving it for me afterwards to decide as to the use which I may find it requisite to make of your confession. Are you prepared to do what I ask of you?” Janvard’s shoulders rose and fell again. “I cannot help myself,” he said. “I have no choice but to comply with the wishes of monsieur.” “Sensibly spoken. Try another glass of wine. It may help to refresh your memory.” “Alas! monsieur, my memory needs no refreshing. The incidents of that night are far too terrible to be forgotten.” With a hand that still shook slightly he poured himself out another glass of wine and drank it off at a draught. Then he continued: “On the night of the quarrel in the billiard-room at Park Newton I was sitting up for my master, Mr. St. George. About midnight the bell rang for me, and on answering it, my master put Mr. Osmond into my hands, he being somewhat the worse for wine, with instructions to see him safely to bed. This I did, and then left him. As it happened, I had taken a violent fancy to Mr. Osmond’s splendid ruby ring—the very ring monsieur has now in his possession—and that night I determined to make it my own. There were several new servants in the house, and nobody would suspect me of having taken it. Mr. Osmond had drawn it off his finger, and thrown it carelessly into his dressing-bag which he locked before getting into bed, afterwards putting his keys under his pillow.