“Oh, this is blackmail, eh?” he cried. “You want to force me to help you by threatening me. Well, I refuse point-blank. Give what information you like. You are a spy.” I gave him a steady look and answered very deliberately. “You mistake me. I did not give the information which led to that raid in the Rua Catania, but--I know who did.” I got right home with that thrust, and as he glared at me, that old perplexed, speculative fear of me came creeping back into his eyes. He tried to fight it back by encouraging his rage. “Are you going to force me to kick you out, you spy?” he cried fiercely. “A spy is an object of contempt, quite kickable, of course; but Dr. Barosa would probably regard a traitor as infinitely more despicable.” “I don’t know what you mean,” he said, even more angrily, but also with more fear. I paused. “You forged the letter in my name. I have the proofs here;” and I took out the letter and held it up. He burst into a loud scoffing laugh, the effort of which was obvious. “You must have lost your senses.” Even his voice was beginning to grow unsteady. Having frightened him to this extent, I took a chance. It was certain of course that he must have carefully practised the copying of my handwriting before he forged the letter, so I glanced round significantly at his desk and said: “You are forgetting that you have not been in this room for more than thirty hours.” It was an excellent bluff. He was scared right through. He changed colour, and the quick look which he shot involuntarily at the desk was instinct with fear. It was several seconds before he could recover himself sufficiently even to bluster. “I’ll have no more of this,” he said with an oath and came toward me threateningly. I knew him to be a wretched coward and was not in the least doubt that if he laid hands on me I could more than hold my own; so I let him come, my eyes fixed very steadily upon his. About two paces from me he stopped. “Are you going?” he asked. I made no answer and no movement. “I’m in no mood to be trifled with.” I let this go also without reply. I kept my eyes steadily on his face, and saw the struggle between his rage and his fear, and at one moment his rage all but won. His face set viciously and he tried to conceal his intention under an assumption of contempt. “You are too contemptible to touch,” he said, as he moved back and then turned to his desk. For a moment he misled me. I thought he meant no more by the insult than a cover for his cowardice. But I soon changed my opinion. His back was toward me, and I saw that while pretending to turn over his papers, his left hand went stealthily to a drawer. I guessed his intention. The purpose in his mind when he had meditated that attack had not been to put me out of the room, but to secure the proofs of his treachery which I said were in my possession. He was looking now for a weapon with which to force them from me.