“I shall not resist,” said John Steele.  “But—­I refuse.”  He spoke recklessly, regardlessly.

“In that case—­” Lord Ronsdale half rose; his face looked drawn but determined; he reached as if to touch a bell.  “You force the issue, and—­”

“One moment.”  As he spoke John Steele stepped toward the fireplace; he gazed downward at a tiny white ash on the glowing coals; a little film that might have been—­paper?  “In a matter so important we may consider a little longer, lest,” still regarding the hearth, “there may be after-regrets.”  His words even to himself sounded puerile; but what they led to had more poignancy; he lifted now his keen glowing eyes.  “In one little regard I did your lordship an injustice.”

“In what way?” The nobleman had been studying him closely, had followed the direction of his glance; noted almost questioningly what it had rested on—­the coals, or vacancy?

“In supposing that you yourself murdered Amy Gerard,” came the unexpected response.  The other started violently.  “Your lordship will forgive the assumption in view of what occurred on a certain stormy night at sea, when a drowning wretch clung with one hand to a gunwale, and you, in answer to his appeal for succor, bent over and—­”

“It’s a lie!” The words fell in a sharp whisper.

“What?” John Steele’s laugh sounded mirthlessly.  “However, we will give a charitable interpretation to the act; the boat was already overcrowded; one more might have endangered all.  Call it an impulse of self-preservation.  Self-preservation,” he repeated; “the struggle of the survival of the fittest!  Let the episode go.  Especially as your lordship incidentally did me a great service; a very great service.”  The other stared at him.  “I should have looked at it only in that light, and then it would not have played me the trick it did of affording a false hypothesis for a certain conclusion.  Your lordship knows what I mean, how the true facts in this case of Amy Gerard have come to light?”

John Steele’s glance was straight, direct; if the other had the paper, had read it, he would know.

Lord Ronsdale looked toward the bell, hesitated.  “I think you had better tell me,” he said at last.

“If your lordship did not kill the woman—­if the ’Frisco Pet did not, then who did?” Ronsdale leaned forward just in the least; his eyes seemed to look into the other’s as if to ask how much, just what, he had learned.  John Steele studied the nobleman with a purpose of his own.  “Why, she killed herself,” he said suddenly.

“How?” The nobleman uttered this word, then stopped; John Steele waited.  Had Lord Ronsdale been surprised at his knowledge?  He could hardly tell, from his manner, whether or not he had the affidavit and had read it.

“How—­interesting!” The nobleman was willing to continue the verbal contest a little longer; that seemed a point gained.  “May I ask how it occurred?”