“Your daughter!” said Langhetti. “What she is, and who she is, you very well know. If the dead could speak they would tell a different story.” “What the devil do you mean,” cried Potts, “by the dead? At any rate you are a fool; for very naturally the dead can’t speak; but what concern that has with my daughter I don’t know. Mind, you are playing a dangerous game in trying to bully me.” Potts spoke fiercely and menacingly. Langhetti’s impetuous goal kindled to a new fervor at this insulting language. He stretched out his long, thin hand toward Potts, and said: “I hold your life and fortune in my hand. Give up that girl whom you call your daughter.” Potts stood for a moment staring. “The devil you do!” he cried, at last. “Come, I call that good, rich, racy! Will your sublime Excellency have the kindness to explain yourself? If my life is in your hand it’s in a devilish lean and weak one. It strikes me you’ve got some kink in your brain--some notion or other. Out with it, and let us see what you’re driving at!” “Do you know a man named Cigole?” said Langhetti. “Cigole!” replied Potts, after a pause, in which he had stared hard at Langhetti; “well, what if I do? Perhaps I do, and perhaps I don’t.” “He is in my power,” said Langhetti, vehemently. “Much good may he do you then, for I’m sure when he was in my power he never did any good to me.” “He will do good in this case, at any rate,” said Langhetti, with an effort at calmness. “He was connected with you in a deed which you must remember, and can tell to the world what he knows.” “Well, what if he does?” said Potts. “He will tell,” cried Langhetti, excitedly, “the true story of the Despard murder.” “Ah!” said Potts, “now the murder’s out. That’s what I thought. Don’t you suppose I saw through you when you first began to speak so mysteriously? I knew that you had learned some wonderful story, and that you were going to trot it out at the right time. But if you think you’re going to bully me you’ll find it hard work. “Cigole is in my power,” said Langhetti, fiercely. “And so you think I am, too?” sneered Potts. “Partly so.” “Why?” “Because he was an accomplice of yours in the Despard murder.” “So he says, no doubt; but who’ll believe him?” “He is going to turn Queen’s evidence!” said Langhetti, solemnly. “Queen’s evidence!” returned Potts, contemptuously, “and what’s his evidence worth--the evidence of a man like that against a gentleman of unblemished character?” “He will be able to show what the character of that gentleman is,” rejoined Langhetti. “Who will believe him?” “No one can help it.” “You believe him, no doubt. You and he are both Italians--both dear friends--and both enemies of mine; but suppose I prove to the world conclusively that Cigole is such a scoundrel that his testimony is worthless?” “You can’t,” cried Langhetti, furiously. Potts cast a look of contempt at him--