“You are too contemptible to touch,” he said, as he moved back and then turned to his desk.
For a moment he misled me. I thought he meant no more by the insult than a cover for his cowardice. But I soon changed my opinion. His back was toward me, and I saw that while pretending to turn over his papers, his left hand went stealthily to a drawer. I guessed his intention.
The purpose in his mind when he had meditated that attack had not been to put me out of the room, but to secure the proofs of his treachery which I said were in my possession. He was looking now for a weapon with which to force them from me.
To test him, as well as to interrupt his search, I made a feint of leaving.
“I will go now,” I said and stepped toward the door.
“No, by Heaven, not until this thing is cleared,” he cried, and rushing to the door he locked it, pocketed the key, and hurried back to the desk.
Knowing the man, I had of course taken the precaution of having my own weapon with me, and was about to take it out when another thought struck me.
Instead of the revolver, I took out a letter from the Corsican, Prelot, which had been forwarded to me that morning.
“What is there to be cleared up?” I asked, in the same steady, stern tone I had used before.
He found his revolver then and holding it behind him turned round. “You have made a lying charge against me. You say you have the proofs. Give me them.”