I sat down and meditated all I would say. I had settled it over and over again, and read and reread the fatal letter. The servant came up with glasses and soda-water. I trembled lest he should observe that the door to the other room was locked, but he did not. He opened the window and looked up and down the street. Presently he said, "Here's the colonel at last, sir," and went down to open the door. I heard him come in and speak to his servant. Then he came straight up, humming _"la donna e mobile,"_ and walked in with just the jaunty, airy manner I remembered. He was in evening dress, and very little changed. He seemed much surprised to see me, and turned very white. "Well, my Apollo of the T square, _pourquoi cet honneur?_ Have you come, like a dutiful nephew, to humble yourself and beg for forgiveness?" I forgot all I meant to say (indeed, nothing happened as I had meant), but rose and said, "I have come to have a talk with you," as quietly as I could, though with a thick voice. He seemed uneasy, and went towards the door. I got there before him, and closed it, and locked it, and put the key in my pocket. He darted to the other door and found it locked. Then he went to the mantel-piece and looked for the creese, and not finding it, he turned round with his back to the fireplace and his arms akimbo, and tried to look very contemptuous and determined. His chin was quite white under his dyed mustache--like wax--and his eyes blinked nervously. I walked up to him and said: "You told Mrs. Deane that I was your natural son." "It's a lie! Who told you so?" "She did--this afternoon." "It's a lie--a spiteful invention of a cast-off mistress!" "She never was your mistress!" "You fool! I suppose she told you that too. Leave the room, you pitiful green jackass, or I'll have you turned out," and he rang the bell. "Do you know your own handwriting?" I said, and handed him the letter. He read a line or two and gasped out that it was a forgery, and rang the bell again, and looked again behind the clock for his creese. Then he lit the letter at a candle and threw it in the fireplace, where it blazed out. I made no attempt to prevent him. The servant tried to open the door, and Ibbetson went to the window and called out for the police. I rushed to the picture where I had hidden the creese, and threw it on the table. Then I swung him away from the window by his coat-tails, and told him to defend himself, pointing to the creese. He seized it, and stood on the defensive; the servant had apparently run down-stairs for assistance. "Now, then," I said, "down on your knees, you infamous cur, and confess; it's your only chance." "Confess what, you fool?" "That you're a coward and a liar; that you wrote that letter; that Mrs. Deane was no more your mistress than my mother was!" There was a sound of people running up-stairs. He listened a moment and hissed out: