“My name is Ralph Donnington. I am an Englishman and have the privilege of enjoying the friendship of M. Volheno.” “Why didn’t you say who you were before?” “You did not ask me, and I never argue with the man at the butt end of a revolver.” “How is it you are here?” “I think that is a matter I can better explain to my friend, M. Volheno, himself.” Seeing the excellent effect of the name, I deemed it judicious to rub it in. “Are you in command here? If not, I wish you would bring your superior here or take me to him.” They whispered together and one of them left the room. “Do you know where you are? What this house is, I mean?” “Oh yes, perfectly. I have had very good proof of it. Would you have any objection to my lowering my hands? This is rather a trying position.” He nodded and his face relaxed in a grin which he turned away to conceal. “I should also like my matchbox and cigarettes--if you don’t think I shall blow the Government up with them. Thank you very much,” I added as he handed them to me. Affecting considerable annoyance at the condition of the cigarettes, I tossed away those which were broken, and while pretending to straighten out the bent ones I managed to slip the one I held into the case without his knowledge. Then I lit another and pocketed the case, and sat puffing away, with that air of easy indifference affected by the cigarette-smoking villain in melodrama when he is top dog and has all the virtuous members of the caste in his power. I had nearly finished the cigarette when the man returned with a superior officer whose look of chagrin told me that the raid had been unsuccessful and that Barosa and the rest had escaped. “Now what is your story?” he asked brusquely. As he had the look of a man who would not stand any nonsense, I dropped my air of indifference. “I am an Englishman, Donnington is my name. I quite understand that my presence here requires explanation and that of course I am entirely in your hands.” “What is your explanation?” “I was brought here by force.” He sneered. “You think I shall believe that?” “I am sure that my friend, M. Volheno, will.” “What does M. Volheno know of you?” “Your men took from me a letter he wrote to me. It is on the desk there and explains itself. But it is marked confidential; and whether he would wish you to read it is a point I will leave to you. I am indifferent.” This proved a good card. He stretched out his hand to take the letter and paused. “Tell me the purport of it,” he said. “No, no. I can’t do that. It is a confidential letter, I say. I cannot disclose it therefore. But I am your prisoner and cannot prevent your doing what you please.” His perplexity was quite amusing. “How do I know it is not a forgery?” “I don’t know that myself, but it was addressed to me at my rooms, 318, Rua de Palma, and reached me to-night through the post.” “How long have you been in this house?” “Some hours.” “Alone?” he cried with another sneer.