The lamp was directed at my face the whole time--the only gleam of light in the whole room. And to me everything was, of course, just one huge blur of utter darkness. “You refuse to tell me? You will repent it, I warn you.” “I have answered,” I said again. “You say you were a prisoner?” “Yes.” “When did you come to the house?” “This morning. I came here from my yacht, the _Stella_. She is in the river now.” “Who made you a prisoner, and why?” To answer that involved the telling of all I knew. And whether this was sham or reality, it meant danger to Miralda. “You may be sure I mean to find that out,” I said, fencing. A pause followed and I heard some whispering. Then the man’s former question was repeated. “You say you were a prisoner?” “Yes.” “A prisoner at liberty to roam about the house armed with a loaded revolver? Is that what you mean?” “Some little time ago a woman came to me--I was locked in a room at the top of the house--and gave me the revolver and told me I could leave.” This was the truth; but it sounded like a preposterous lie--as the truth sometimes will. “And that was just at the moment when you were all hurry-scurrying for your lives on our arrival. Of course you don’t know who the woman was, any more than why you came sneaking down the stairs in the pitch darkness with her revolver ready to put a bullet into any one who prevented your escape.” “What I tell you is absolutely true. I was trying to get away, of course, and came down in the dark fearing some trick on the part of those who had imprisoned me.” “You know whose house this is?” “Oh, yes. The Contesse Inglesia’s.” “Oh come, you know something,” he sneered. “I suppose she is a friend of yours--just in a social way?” “I was presented to her at the house of the Marquis de Pinsara just after my arrival in Lisbon. I came to Lisbon on a mission of considerable importance in which the Marquis and others of his friends are greatly interested.” “Do you include His Majesty the King in your circle of friends?” I disregarded the sneer and replied gravely, “No, but I can give you a list of those who are interested in my affairs;” and beginning with M. Volheno, I rattled off a number of names. It was no good having well-placed acquaintances without making some use of them. “You are an impudent scoundrel,” was the hot reply. “Why did you come to this house to-day?” “On matters closely connected with my object here in Lisbon.” This was, of course, my real object--Miralda--but it was not necessary to split hairs or trouble with too much explanation. “Whom have you seen here?” “The Contesse Inglesia and the woman who gave me the revolver.” “No one else?”