"I will tell you the truth," he said, speaking in a low, clear, and incisive tone. "You would yourself marry Barbara Lanison, and, having established a hold over her guardian, you have attempted to force her to such an alliance by threats. At every turn in the game you have been foiled. You have failed to impress Mistress Lanison; you failed in a villainous endeavour to defend her against a drunken man who was acting on your suggestion; you failed to capture me at Lenfield when you had no warrant but your own will for attempting such a capture." "You have sat at the feet of an excellent taleteller, sir, or else you have a prodigious imagination of your own." Harriet Payne's eyes were fixed upon Rosmore. She watched him, and looked no more at Crosby. "Failing in these endeavours, you made other schemes," Crosby went on. "Having taken a servant girl from Lenfield, you make use of her. She was an honest girl, I believe, not ill-intentioned towards me, but in your hands she was as clay. How you have deceived her, or what promises you have made to her, I do not know, I can only guess, but, to serve your own purposes, you have made a liar and a cheat of her. She has brought Mistress Lanison to Dorchester for you, that you may once more attempt to force a marriage which is distasteful to the lady. That is the story up to this moment." "You appear to know the lady's secrets as well as mine." "No, not as well as I know yours," Crosby answered. "Had I done so, I might have outwitted you and have prevented her coming to Dorchester." "For a man who so easily believes every tale he hears, you are an exceedingly self-reliant person." "And fortunate, too," said Crosby, "since I have an opportunity of showing you the end of the story." "A prophet, by gad!" exclaimed Rosmore. "I entered this room in time to hear your transaction with Judge Marriott," said Crosby. "Now the story ends in one of two ways. You have two orders of release, one for Mistress Lanison, one for me. I know their value, or you would not have been so anxious to get them, and I have at least one friend in Dorchester who can execute those orders without any question being raised. Those orders you will deliver to me, here and now." "May I know how else the story might end?" Rosmore asked contemptuously. "With your death," was the quiet answer. "Oh, no, not murder; death in fair fight. You are hardly likely to scream for help, I take it; you have yourself carefully locked the door, and no one is likely to pass along the alley outside that window. You may choose which way the story shall end." "You so nearly make me laugh at you, Mr. Crosby, that I find the utmost difficulty in quarrelling with you. The orders I shall not part with, and I am half minded to call for help." "You would not need it when it arrived," Crosby answered. "And you would hang to-morrow."