At the same instant there was a faint sound on my left. I had completely forgotten the existence of my visitor; I now remembered him, for that sound came from inside the cupboard, and Grant, evidently, was ready to leap out. But I did not want Grant. I intended the whole matter to be between Boyde and myself. A flash of understanding had given me complete assurance. Boyde, I now knew, was a coward, a sneak, a cheat, a liar, and worse besides. In spite of my physical weakness I had the upper hand. I was about to give him the fright of his life, though still with no clear idea exactly how this was to be accomplished. All I knew was that I meant to terrify him, then forgive--and save him from himself. “Not yet!” I called out, yet so quickly, and with so little apparent meaning, that Boyde, I think, hardly heard me, and certainly did not understand. Grant, however, understood. He told me later it was just in time to prevent his coming out. With one hand supporting me on the edge of the dressing-table, I was now close to Boyde, bent double in front of him, staring up into his eyes. “Give me that razor,” I said, and he obeyed, as I felt sure he would. That is, his fingers moved away from it, and I quickly pushed it out of his reach. With my other hand I seized his arm. I raised my face to his as much as my wound allowed. “Boyde,” I said, “I know _everything_!” If I expected a collapse, as I think was the case, I was disappointed. Nothing happened. He did not move. Not a muscle, not even an eyelash flickered. He stared down into my upturned face without a word, waiting for what was coming; control of the features, of mouth and eyes in particular, was absolute. And it was this silence, this calm assurance, giving me no help, even making it more difficult for me, that, I think, combined to set me going. I was fairly wound up; I saw red. The words poured out, hot, bitter, scathing. The moment I ended, he smiled, as he said very quietly: “I don’t know _what_ you’re talking about. You are fearfully excited and you will regret your words. I do wish you would get back into bed. All this is awfully bad for you in your weak condition.” I was flabbergasted. All the wind had been taken from my sails. A touch would have sent me to the floor, but he did not touch me. He merely gazed into my face with an air of calm patience that had pity in it, a hint even of contempt. There was a little silence after he had spoken. For a moment I had no notion what to do or say. Then, quite suddenly, up flashed my plan. I was less excited now, my voice was well under control. “Boyde,” I said, “now, at last, I’ve caught you in a worse thing still. You have forged a letter and a signature. You have forged a cheque as well. And you will have to go to prison for it. There is a headquarters detective outside waiting for me to call him in. You are going to be arrested.”