"How old are you?"
"Forty-four or forty-five years of age."
"Where were you born?"
"In Brittany, probably."
M. Segmuller thought he could detect a hidden vein of irony in this
reply.
"I warn you," said he, severely, "that if you go on in this way your
chances of recovering your liberty will be greatly compromised. Each of
your answers is a breach of propriety."
As the supposed murderer heard these words, an expression of mingled
distress and anxiety was apparent in his face. "Ah! I meant no offense,
sir," he sighed. "You questioned me, and I replied. You will see that
I have spoken the truth, if you will allow me to recount the history of
the whole affair."
"When the prisoner speaks, the prosecution is enlightened," so runs an
old proverb frequently quoted at the Palais de Justice. It does, indeed,
seem almost impossible for a culprit to say more than a few words in an
investigating magistrate's presence, without betraying his intentions or
his thoughts; without, in short, revealing more or less of the secret he
is endeavoring to conceal. All criminals, even the most simple-minded,
understand this, and those who are shrewd prove remarkably reticent.
Confining themselves to the few facts upon which they have founded their
defense, they are careful not to travel any further unless absolutely
compelled to do so, and even then they only speak with the utmost
caution. When questioned, they reply, of course, but always briefly; and
they are very sparing of details.
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