"Stop it? How?"
"By showing you on which side your bread has the butter. Now look here. I know a heap about you; quite enough to queer your pitch with the von Reblings and put an end to your engagement and lose you the coin on which you're counting. All this rot about a loss of memory is just——" and he waved his cigar in the air to emphasize his meaning.
"What do you know about me?"
"Oh, don't try that fool's game on me."
"But I should be intensely interested in the story. I'm itching to know all about myself," I persisted, seeing how this line provoked him.
"Where did you go from Göttingen, my young friend?" he asked with a meaning nod, as if the question would confound me.
"How the devil do I know?"
"You went to Hanover. You know that perfectly well."
"Did I? And do I? You're getting me regularly mixed, you know." I was delighted to see that he was fast losing his temper.
"You did. And when you were there you had a friend, who called himself Gossen; but was in reality a Frenchman, named Gaudet. Don't say you don't remember, because it will be a lie," he snarled.