Next I picked up Prelot’s letter and was beginning to hunt round for some brandy when it occurred to me to look in his desk to make sure that he had no other weapons and also to see if there was any evidence that he had been practising my handwriting. A hasty search gave me just what I wanted. Hidden away in a small drawer I found some sheets of paper on one of which was the draft of the letter he had written in his own handwriting; while among the others were his first attempts at the forgery and with them a letter of mine written to Volheno announcing my arrival in Lisbon. I concluded that Sampayo had been disturbed at his work and had put the papers away hurriedly and forgotten them. Lastly I turned my attention to restoring him. I found a decanter of brandy and gave him some. The spirit soon began to take effect, and then I lit another cigar and sat down to wait until he should be ready to resume operations. When at length he sat up he passed his hand across his eyes in dazed bewilderment, as a man will when awakened suddenly from an ugly dream. Then with a start he began to stare about the floor as if looking for the letter, and not seeing it he gave a deep sigh of intense relief, apparently convinced that the thing was no more than a nightmare horror. “If you’re looking for that letter, I have it,” I said quietly. With a shuddering start at my voice--I was behind him and he had not seen me--he swung round and stared at me, and began to shake again as his terror returned. “Here, you’d better have some more of this;” and I poured him out a wine-glassful of brandy and gave it him. He made one gulp of it and sat leaning forward, trying to think. Presently he scrambled to his feet and sank with a sigh into the chair, leant his arms on the desk and buried his face in his hands. For some few minutes--five probably--he remained in this attitude of utter dejection. Then he let his hands fall on the desk, turned his head slightly so that he could see exactly where I was, and shifted his position so that the action of his left hand should be hidden by his body. He was reaching for his revolver of course. A start and a grunt of dismay announced his disappointment. “If you feel steady enough to shoot, you’re fit to talk,” I said sharply; “and we’ll get this thing over.” There was a long pause before he spoke. “What is it?” he murmured then, slowly and sullenly. I gave him another shock then. Imitating Prelot’s voice as nearly as I could recall it, I stamped my feet and called out, “Ah, Jean Dufoire, at last!” The effect was electrical. He sprang up and turned round in a positive agony of terror. I laughed. “I began to think you might have forgotten your name.” With a scowl of hate he flung a bitter curse at me. “Well, it’s roused you anyway, and now listen to me. You are either going to do exactly what I tell you, or Lucien Prelot and Jean Dufoire will be face to face before this time to-morrow. Now, which is it to be?”