He got up and fumbled his way to the desk again, and after a pause began to write, with many delays and hesitation.
Presently I crossed and over his shoulder read what he had written. A silly lie about having found the paper. I tore the sheet from the desk and crumpled it up.
"Don't think to palm off that lie to me. I know how you got it. Write the truth, or I send for Herr Borsen." The threat had little effect however.
"I swear on my soul that that is the truth," he muttered, looking round.
"You are playing with your life, man. Your only chance of getting me to hold my tongue is to make a clean breast of it, not only about your theft but another thing."
"What do you mean?" Just a whisper of terror. No more.
"Your loss of this."
I took out the ring which I had found on the night of Ziegler's murder.
It was the breaking point. He stared at it a second like a man bereft of his wits, gave one glance up into my stern, set face, and with a groan let his head fall on the desk before it.
"Come," I said, shaking him roughly.