He divined that Chauchat believed him to be dreaming. This was natural perhaps; how could the good, simple-minded old clergyman believe in the reality of such a crime? But he must convince him of the miserable truth. He must begin again and describe it all more circumstantially. He must go on until he saw conviction dawn in the eyes that now looked at him with such friendly pity, until he saw that pity change to aversion and fear. He began over again.
But Chauchat laid a hand upon his arm.
"One moment! You say you killed this man?"
"Yes, I killed him."
"You threw him over the Coupée?"
"I followed him from the house, and threw him over the Coupée."
"No, my poor boy; no, no, no! Thank God, you did not. Thank God, you are dreaming. You have had some strange, some horrible delusion. But Shergold is alive, is well, I have but just now come from him. He, indeed, is the reason of my visit. I come as a messenger from him, a mediator between him and you."
Le Mesurier sat there stunned, dazed, vacant. Was Chauchat mad? The old man's voice buzzed in his ears; he was still talking, explaining how Shergold had come over by the morning's boat; how he had called at the parsonage, and told the story of his last visit to Le Mesurier, of the deed of assignment, and of Le Mesurier's refusal to sign it; of the pressing need there was that it should be signed; how he had begged Chauchat to use his influence with Le Mesurier, and so Chauchat was here, while Shergold was staying till to-morrow at the Belle Vue Hotel, and was quite prepared to meet Le Mesurier on amicable terms, if he would go down there and see him.
