Grewgus bent upon the dandified man his very penetrating and expressive glance. “This is a business interview, Mr. Edwards, and there is no necessity for heroics. You know as well as I do that Lord Wraysbury is quite innocent of any desire to violate the sanctity of your home, or, for the matter of that, the home of anybody. He’s not that sort of man. Let me warn you that if you do proceed with this action, it is at your own peril and that of the lady who bears your name.” “My own peril! What the devil do you mean?” blustered Edwards. But, in spite of his assumed bravado, Grewgus saw an unhealthy pallor creeping over his usually high-coloured cheek. Again that penetrating gaze, that distinct and deliberate utterance: “I don’t know very much about you at present, Mr. Edwards; I have no doubt I shall add something more to my knowledge shortly. One little thing I do know, that you were in Paris a short time before the discovery of the dead body of Léon Calliard in the river Meuse. And that every day you were meeting the woman who is now Mrs. Edwards in the outskirts of the city.” He paused, expecting a bold-faced disclaimer. But it did not come. For the moment, the man was stricken dumb. “Of the woman now calling herself your wife, I know a great deal more, under her different names of Elise Makris, Zillah Mayhew, Miss Glenthorne. I also know a fair amount about your friend Stormont. And the same applies to another friend of yours, Glenthorne, otherwise John Whitehouse. Have I said enough?” Still there was no reply; the man could not find speech, and he had aged in those few seconds. “Please understand me once and for all. If, in a reckless moment, you persist in this baseless charge against my client and your wife, who is your accomplice in the matter, I go to Scotland Yard and give my information, which, as I have told you, is rather extensive.” Edwards rose to his feet and pointed with a shaking hand to the door. “Leave the room, you wretched spy. Tell your client the action will proceed,” he shouted with a last attempt at bravado. Grewgus laughed derisively, and flung at him a Parthian shot as he left. “Don’t forget when you reckon up the pros and cons that the Paris police are still investigating the case of Léon Calliard, the murdered jeweller.” As he walked along the Strand, Grewgus felt very satisfied with himself. In spite of Edwards’ bluff, he felt sure that he had won the day. And presently a man brushed past him as he was within a few yards of Charing Cross Station, walking at a rapid pace; it was the man he had just left. As he hastily crossed the road at Villiers Street, Grewgus had a sudden idea that he was going to the telegraph office to dispatch a wire. He could have sent it from the _Cecil_, of course, but no doubt he had good reasons for not doing so.