"Is Dr. Rudolf Garschagen identical with Mr. Seth Halford?" he asked quietly.
"I stood in need of your assurance!" he muttered frowning. "But I confess I should like you to explain the meaning of your present mummery. You were excellently well disguised before!"
I bowed profoundly. "Thank you for the compliment, Sir Charles. I shall explain with pleasure. It is my custom to change my appearance as often as my clothes. The wisdom of this course will be apparent to you, when you consider that you have already confessed to a confused impression of me in your mind!"
His frown grew more black. "You appear to be a confoundedly clever fellow!" he exclaimed in irritated tones.
"I entertain such a lively respect for my opponent that I have tried to show you my best!" I replied, laying a gloved hand on my heart.
"I did not come here to exchange compliments with you," he retorted coldly. "Kindly get to business."
"Yes. But I shall not give you a solitary farthing until I am furnished with a substantial guarantee that this will be your last impertinence. My--er--friends and I do not propose to let you hold our souls in pawn."
He took a paper from his packet and tossed it carelessly upon the table. "Read!" said he.
The paper contained a confession that I--a blank was left for my name--on a certain night, stole from Sir Charles Venner, by means of impersonation and fraud, the sum of three hundred pounds.
"I suppose you wish me to sign this?" I asked.
"Certainly, and to disclose your identity besides!"
I smiled grimly and tore the paper into shreds.
"You must be satisfied with my oath, which I give you freely, that you will never hear from me again, Sir Charles. Now, please, the money."
"I am sorry," he said softly. "But we cannot do business on those terms!"
I bowed and got at once to my feet. "Then our interview is at an end!" I moved towards the bell, but I had not advanced two paces when he cried out, "Stop!"
I turned to look into the muzzle of a revolver. Sir Charles Venner's right eye gleamed behind the sights, and his expression was diabolically wicked. I hate fire-arms. They make me nervous, especially when pointed in the direction of my vital organs, by a presumably desperate man. A cold shivering thrill quivered up my spine, and I felt my knee joints loosen. My eyes, however, did not cease to serve me, and with a gasp of reviving hope I noted that the pistol was not cocked. It, however, takes more than a second to recover from such a shock as I had received, and Sir Charles had only perceived my first sharp gush of fear.