Not the heart of Monsieur Guinaud, but the statement of Monsieur Guinaud's feelings; so Fanks, seeing that he must either give confidence for confidence or remain ignorant, chose the former alternative, and spoke out.
"Very well, I will tell you what I think, but of course you will keep our conversation secret."
Judas blew an airy kiss with a light touch of the long fingers on his mouth, and laughed pleasantly.
"My faith, yes. Monsieur is the soul of honour, and I, Monsieur Fanks--eh, is it not the name?--I am the resemblance of that soul. What you speak this night drops into the open heart of me. Snip, as say you English, I close the heart. The talk is safe; but, yes--you understand."
"Then that's all right," said Fanks, grimly; "we may as well proceed to business. As Mr. Vosk translated to you, the papers say Melstane committed suicide--gave himself the death! Comprehend you, eh? Very well. I say no. It was a crime! Melstane was murdered."
"I will explain. Melstane had a box of tonic pills with him, containing, when it left your shop, twelve pills."
"I can account for six pills, and in the box at present there are eight."
"I understand," said Judas, quickly. "Two pills were placed in the box by an unknown. Those two pills contained poison. The poor Melstane took one pill of poison, and died. Monsieur has taken the pills to Monsieur the Dr. Japix to find the other pill."
"You are perfectly right," said Fanks, rather astonished at the rapidity with which the assistant grasped the case.
"Eh, monsieur, I am not blind," replied Judas, shrugging his shoulders; "and now monsieur desires to find the unknown who placed the pills of poison in the box."
"Exactly! And to do so I want you to tell me all you know about Sebastian Melstane's life here," answered Fanks, producing his secretive little note-book.
Monsieur Guinaud looked thoughtfully at the fire, then glanced up at the ceiling, and at length brought his eyes (guileless expression) to rest on the face of Mr. Fanks.
"It is difficult to make the commencement," he said, speaking slowly, as if he weighed every word. "Behold, monsieur, I make the story to myself this way: My poor Sebastian, he is an artist. Eh! not what you call a great artist for the Salon in London, but good in the pictures. Oh! yes, much of the talent. Six months ago, in London, he beholds a pretty lady. It is Mees Mar-rson, the daughter of the very rich monsieur of this town. My friend has the grand passion for the charming mees--eh! I believe it well--and comes to this town to say 'I love you!' Alas, he finds that the too charming mees is to marry the rich Monsieur Sp--Sp--I cannot say your English names."