“I have to go to gaol first,” I said with a snarl for my old enemy. “I was already there in my dreams when you roused me. But if I am to be shot or hanged or beheaded as this man decides, I’ll leave directions for my corpse to be packed up neatly and sent to M. Volheno.” I was winning so I could afford a small jibe. “You are of course at liberty to go where you will,” said Dagara. “Then I’ll go back to bed,” I declared as I rose, “and will see M. Volheno in the morning. I have to tell him how this brute has treated me.” The official had wilted like an unwatered flower in the noon sunlight. He returned me my belongings and began to mumble an apology. “I much regret----” “I’ve no doubt of it. I know your kind,” I cut in drily, and then left the house with Dagara, feeling that I was well out of an ugly business. I had come off with all the honours of war, too, for my letters had not been read and the two little secret papers were safely stowed away in my cigarette case. The secretary walked with me to my rooms and I found him an exceedingly close-lipped individual. The house where the drastic test of my good faith had been applied was in the Rua Formosa, about half a mile from the Rua de Palma; and during the walk I could get little else than monosyllables from my companion. He did go so far as to tell me that he had been at work all night with Volheno and that that was the reason he had not gone home and had been able to come so promptly to identify me. But when I asked him about the police official he replied that he knew nothing. I soon ceased to question him, and as we reached my rooms, he said suddenly: “You will understand of course that M. Volheno never allows me to speak of any of his affairs. I will give him your message, and wish you good-morning, Mr. Donnington;” and with this abrupt apology in explanation of his silence, he raised his hat and went off. A useful and silently working wheel, no doubt, in the complicated machinery of the Dictator’s system of government, was my mental verdict as I entered my rooms, eager to examine my prizes at leisure. I put back some of the things Barosa’s men had left littered about, brewed myself some strong coffee, and set to work. I first read through again very carefully the forged letter which had been sent to Volheno. That it was the work of an enemy who was well versed in my movements was of course on the surface. My friendship with the man to whom it was addressed, my secret knowledge of the house in the Rua Catania, my business in regard to these Beira concessions, these three points told their story as plainly as the attempt proved the ingenious malignity of the writer, and his intention to cause Barosa and his friends to suspect me of treachery. The blow was aimed at my life. There was only one man in all Lisbon who could have the needed information and would have the motive. Sampayo.