Spotty admitted that the ornament might be the very one wanted, but he absolutely refused to tell how he had come by it.  He was most emphatic, however, in denying that he had taken it from Mrs. Darcy, or that he had even seen her or been to her store.

“I’m a bad man, Colonel, you know that, and maybe if I was to go to the chair—­or the rope, according, to where I was caught—­I wouldn’t be getting any more than was comin’ to me.  But, so help me, I never croaked that old lady!”

“Then how did you get that cross?”

“I won’t tell you!”

“I’ll make you, Spotty!” and there was a dangerous glint in the eyes of the colonel.

“You can’t!” defied the crook.  “There ain’t a man livin’ that can!  Go on with your third degree if you want to!” he sneered.  “But for every blow you strike—­for every hour you keep me awake when I’m dead for sleep—­you’ll be sorry, Colonel!  You’ll be sorry when you think of what might have happened back there in Colchester!”

“Spotty, you’re right!” faltered the colonel.  “I almost wish you hadn’t saved me.  I’ve got to do my duty!  I’ve got to break you if need be, Spotty, to get at the truth.  I want to know who killed Mrs. Darcy and where you got that cross!  I want to know, and, by gad!  I’m going to know!”

“Not from me, Colonel!  I never saw the old lady, dead or alive, and I never knew until just now when you told me, that she’d ever had this cross.”

“Who gave it to you?”

“Colonel, did you ever know me to split on a pal unless he split first?”

“No, Spotty.  I never did.”

“Well, then, you stand a fine chance in getting me to do it now.  Go to it if you like.  I’m through spielin’!” and the crook turned away with an air of indifference.

The colonel knew that Spotty never would tell, until he wanted to, but it did not deter him.  He “went at” Spotty.  What happened in the quiet room, near the police headquarter cells, need not form part of this record.  Enough to say that when they let Spotty go staggering back to his dungeon, a wreck of a man physically and mentally for the time being, he had not told.

And the glittering stones in the crushed cross were not more silent than he in his misery—­deserved perhaps, but none the less misery.

And when the colonel, rather upset himself by what he had been forced to go through, started back for Colchester, he took with him the memory of Spotty’s rather sneering face and the echo of his words: 

“Well, Colonel, I didn’t tell!”

And he had not.  The diamond cross still kept its mystery.

Colonel Ashley fumed, fretted, and fidgeted until he was on the verge of a sleepless night on his way back in the train.  Then he bethought himself of his little green book, and he read: 

“You are to know, then, that there is a night as well as a day fishing for a trout, and that in the night the best trout come out of their holes.”