At the sound of my voice I saw him start, bend a sharp, keen look on me, and then appear to dive into his capacious memory for the connection which it stirred. Then he said as sternly and harshly as he could:
"This is no drawing-room audience. I don't allow prisoners to sit in my presence. Be so good as to stand up," and he motioned with his hand.
"Thank you, but I deny your right to address me in that tone. I am no prisoner, and this is no court. While I am here I demand to be treated with common courtesy."
"I will send you to a police cell to learn manners," he cried.
"As you please. I would rather sit in a jail than stand to be hectored by you," and I smiled and shrugged my shoulders.
Like my voice, the smile appeared to set his wits gleaning for the facts that would piece together the puzzle my voice and gesture had set him.
For a moment he seemed as if he would carry out his threat; but I judged he would be much more eager to learn what I knew of the conspiracy than to stickle over the question whether I sat or stood in his presence. And so it proved.
"You still dare to carry things with a high hand, even with me?"
"On the contrary, I am here for the express purpose of discussing the whole of this affair with you in its new light. But I tell you at the outset that if you think to frighten me with threats or to treat me as what you call a prisoner, with the meaning your accent gives to the term, you will get nothing from the interview."
"We shall see," he said grimly; but he said no more about my standing up.