The District Attorney, who was a man of more feeling than was usually supposed, contemplated him in compassionate silence for a moment, then gently—­very gently for him—­leaned forward and drew from under the unresisting hands the scattered sheets which lay in disorder before him, and passed them on to his stenographer.

“Read,” said he; but immediately changed his mind and took them back.  “I will read them myself.  Mr. Roberts, I must ask you to listen.  It is right for you to know exactly what you have written before you affix your signature to it.”

Mr. Roberts bowed mechanically, but he looked very weary.

The District Attorney began to read.  It is a matter of doubt whether Mr. Roberts so much as heard him.  Yet the reading went on, and when the last word was reached, the District Attorney, after a pause during which his eye had consulted that of the Chief Inspector, remarked in a kindly tone and yet with an emphasis impossible to disregard: 

“I see that you have made no mention of Madame Duclos in this relation of the cause and manner of her young daughter’s death.  Is it possible that you are ignorant of the part she played in your affairs or the reasons she had for the suicide with which she terminated her life?”

“I know nothing of the woman but that she was the mother of the girl who——­” he hesitated, then added with a gesture of despair, “fell under my hand.”

The District Attorney said nothing in reply, he simply waited.  But no denial or further admission came.

“She was a friend of Mrs. Taylor,” suggested the Chief Inspector as the silence grew somewhat oppressive.  “An old friend; a friend of her early days; do you not remember?”

“I do not.”

His tormentors went no further.  Why harass him for an item of knowledge which the morrow would certainly bring to light.  Instead, they hurried through the remaining formalities, adding to the reading already made a capitulation of such answers as he had given to their questions, and witnessing, while he signed both papers.

This done, he was left for a moment in peace, while the two officials drew aside into the embrasure of the window for a momentary conference.

He seemed to notice the hush, for he roused from the torpor into which he was again about to sink, and glanced cautiously about him.  The stenographer was busy with his papers, and the other two stood with their backs to him.  If help was to come it must come now.  This he realized, with a sudden graying of his face which took from it the last vestige of that youthfulness which had been its distinguishing feature; and the finger which had fumbled from time to time in his vest-pocket stole thither once more, bringing forth a little vial which in another moment he raised to his lips.

Was there no one to see?  No one to stop him?

No, the stenographer was closing up his bag; and the two officials deep in conversation.  He could drain the last drop unseen.