"What have I done," he muttered, "to have so heavy a cross laid on me?"
He turned again to his son. "Your defence is childish. What is the use
of mere denials? Words don't mean anything without proofs to support
them." The lad was silent, seeming to think it useless to attempt to
convince a father who appeared so certain of his guilt, and also crushed
by the thought of all that had happened at the hotel. His father
betrayed some uneasiness at a new thought that had come into his mind.
"I told you not to come to me again except as a last resource, when
punishment was actually overtaking you, or when you had proved your
innocence: why are you here now? Has something happened that I do not
know about? What has happened? What else have you done? Speak!"
Charles Rambert answered in a toneless voice, as if hypnotised:
"There has been a detective in the hotel for the last few days. He
called himself Henri Verbier, and was disguised, but I knew him, for I
had seen him too lately, and in circumstances too deeply impressed upon
my mind for me to be able to forget him, although I only saw him then
for a few minutes."
"What do you mean?" said the elder man uneasily.
"I mean that Juve was at the Royal Palace Hotel."
"Juve?" exclaimed Etienne Rambert. "And then--go on!"
"Juve, disguised as Henri Verbier, subjected me to a kind of
examination, and I don't know what conclusion he came to. Then, this
evening, barely two hours ago, he came up to my room and had a long
talk, and while he was trying to get some information from me about a
matter that I know nothing about--for I swear, papa, that I had nothing
whatever to do with the robbery--he came up to me and took hold of me as
a man does when he wants to make up to a woman. And I lost my head! I
felt that in another minute all would be up with me--that he would
establish my identity, which he perhaps suspected already--and I thought
of all you had done to save my life by representing that I was dead,
and----"
Charles paused for breath. His father's fists were clenched and his face
contracted.
"Go on!" he said, "go on, but speak lower!"
"As Juve came close," Charles went on, "I dealt him a terrific blow on
the forehead, and he fell like a stone. And I got away!"
"Is he dead?" Etienne Rambert whispered.
"I don't know."
* * * * *
For ten minutes Charles Rambert remained alone in the study, where his
father had left him, thinking deeply. Then the door opened and Etienne
Rambert came back carrying a bundle of clothes.
"There you are," he said to his son: "here are some man's clothes. Put
them on, and go!"
The young man hastily took off his woman's garments and dressed himself
in silence, while his father walked up and down the room, plunged in
deepest thought. Twice he asked: "Are you quite sure it was Juve?" and
twice his son replied "Quite sure." And once again Etienne Rambert
asked, in tones that betrayed his keen anxiety: "Did you kill him?" and
Charles Rambert shrugged his shoulders and replied: "I told you before,
I do not know."
And now Charles Rambert stood upon the threshold of the house, about to
leave his father without a word of farewell or parting embrace. M.
Etienne Rambert stayed him, holding out a pocket-book, filled full with
bank-notes.
"There: take that," he said, "and go!"