I gave him another shock then. Imitating Prelot’s voice as nearly as I could recall it, I stamped my feet and called out, “Ah, Jean Dufoire, at last!”
The effect was electrical. He sprang up and turned round in a positive agony of terror.
I laughed. “I began to think you might have forgotten your name.”
With a scowl of hate he flung a bitter curse at me.
“Well, it’s roused you anyway, and now listen to me. You are either going to do exactly what I tell you, or Lucien Prelot and Jean Dufoire will be face to face before this time to-morrow. Now, which is it to be?”
“Who is Jean Dufoire?” he asked, after a long pause.
“If that’s your line, I’m going.”
He let me reach the door and felt in his pocket to make sure that he had the key; but when I opened it he started. “Wait,” he said.
“Which is it to be? Quick,” I said sharply.
“Tell me what you want.”