“You are acquainted with this gentleman, and cannot therefore be ignorant of the cause of the present inquiry.”

“I am, nevertheless, quite in ignorance of it.”

“Be good enough to answer my question.  Why did you leave Paris?  And where have you been?”

“I was absent for business reasons.”

“What business?”

“I shall say no more.”

“Take care! you have incurred serious suspicions, and silence will not tend to clear you.”

Derues hung down his head with an air of resignation; and Monsieur de Lamotte, seeing in this attitude a silent confession of crime, exclaimed, “Wretched man! what have you done with my wife and my son?”

“Your son!—­” said Derues slowly and with peculiar emphasis.  He again cast down his eyes.

The magistrate conducting the inquiry was struck by the expression of Derues’ countenance and by this half answer, which appeared to hide a mystery and to aim at diverting attention by offering a bait to curiosity.  He might have stopped Derues at the moment when he sought to plunge into a tortuous argument, and compelled him to answer with the same clearness and decision which distinguished Monsieur de Lamotte’s question; but he reflected that the latter’s inquiries, unforeseen, hasty, and passionate, were perhaps more likely to disconcert a prepared defence than cooler and more skilful tactics.  He therefore changed his plans, contenting “himself for the moment with the part of an observer only, and watching a duel between two fairly matched antagonists.

“I require:  you to tell me what has become of them,” repeated Monsieur de Lamotte.  “I have been to Versailles, you assured me they were there.”

“And I told you the truth, monsieur.”

“No one has seen them, no one knows them; every trace is lost.  Your Honour, this man must be compelled to answer, he must say what has become of my wife and son!”

“I excuse your anxiety, I understand your trouble, but why appeal to me?  Why am I supposed to know what may have happened to them?”

“Because I confided them to your care.”

“As a friend, yes, I agree.  Yes, it is quite true that last December I received a letter from you informing me of the impending arrival of your wife and son.  I received them in my own house, and showed them the same hospitality which I had received from you.  I saw them both, your son often, your wife every day, until the day she left me to go to Versailles.  Yes, I also took Edouard to his mother, who was negotiating an appointment for him.  I have already told you all this, and I repeat it because it is the truth.  You believed me then:  why do you not believe me now?  Why has what I say become strange and incredible?  If your wife and your son have disappeared, am I responsible?  Did you transmit your authority to me?  And now, in what manner are you thus calling me to account?  Is it to the friend who might have pitied, who might