The Prefect shrugged his shoulders and said: 

“You are suspected of taking part in the murder of Fauville, the civil engineer, and his son Edmond.”

“Is Hippolyte dead?”

The cry was spontaneous, almost unconscious; a bewildered cry of dismay from a man moved to the depths of his being.  And his dismay was supremely strange, his question, trying to make them believe in his ignorance, supremely unexpected.

“Is Hippolyte dead?”

He repeated the question in a hoarse voice, trembling all over as he spoke.

“Is Hippolyte dead?  What are you saying?  Is it possible that he can be dead?  And how?  Murdered?  Edmond, too?”

The Prefect once more shrugged his shoulders.

“The mere fact of your calling M. Fauville by his Christian name shows that you knew him intimately.  And, even if you were not concerned in his murder, it has been mentioned often enough in the newspapers during the last fortnight for you to know of it.”

“I never read a newspaper, Monsieur le Prefet.”

“What!  You mean to tell me—?”

“It may sound improbable, but it is quite true.  I lead an industrious life, occupying myself solely with scientific research, in view of a popular work which I am preparing, and I do not take the least part or the least interest in outside things.  I defy any one to prove that I have read a newspaper for months and months past.  And that is why I am entitled to say that I did not know of Hippolyte Fauville’s murder.”

“Still, you knew M. Fauville.”

“I used to know him, but we quarrelled.”

“For what reason?”

“Family affairs.”

“Family affairs!  Were you related, then?”

“Yes.  Hippolyte was my cousin.”

“Your cousin!  M. Fauville was your cousin!  But ... but then ...  Come, let us have the rights of the matter.  M. Fauville and his wife were the children of two sisters, Elizabeth and Armande Roussel.  Those two sisters had been brought up with a first cousin called Victor.”

“Yes, Victor Sauverand, whose grandfather was a Roussel.  Victor Sauverand married abroad and had two sons.  One of them died fifteen years ago; the other is myself.”

M. Desmalions gave a start.  His excitement was manifest.  If that man was telling the truth, if he was really the son of that Victor whose record the police had not yet been able to trace, then, owing to this very fact, since M. Fauville and his son were dead and Mme. Fauville, so to speak, convicted of murder and forfeiting her rights, they had arrested the final heir to Cosmo Mornington.  But why, in a moment of madness, had he voluntarily brought this crushing indictment against himself?

He continued: 

“My statements seem to surprise you, Monsieur le Prefet.  Perhaps they throw a light on the mistake of which I am a victim?”

He expressed himself calmly, with great politeness and in a remarkably well-bred voice; and he did not for a moment seem to suspect that his revelations, on the contrary, were justifying the measures taken against him.