"I will tell you. You come to Paris, and play the spy upon us. You take rooms opposite our hotel, and so arrange a foreground of observation, that you can see what passes in our apartments without dreaming that you have laid yourself open to observation."
"Oh, you found that out, did you?" exclaimed Chaytor.
"I found that out; and I found out also that you had been in Paris a long, long time, although you declared to my niece, when you first presented yourself to us, that you had but just arrived by the night train. I take no merit for the discovery. You revealed it to me while you were driving with your gay companions. I asked myself, 'Why this lie? Why this secret espionage?' and since then it is that I found the answer. Naturally we spoke of Australia; naturally I recalled the incidents of my first meeting with Basil Whittingham on my brother's plantation. They were incidents it was not possible to forget by either of us, and yet, dear friend, you were entirely ignorant of them; indeed, you scoffed at me for inventing what never occurred. In this way did you again reveal to me, not what you are, but what you are not. Finding your memory so treacherous, I set a trap, frankly I confess it, a simple, innocent trap, which you, being Basil Whittingham, would have stepped over without injury to yourself. In that case it would have been I, not you, who would have had to eat humble pie--is not that your English saying? I invented scenes and incidents in our meeting and brief acquaintanceship in Australia to which you put your seal. On my word, it was as good as a comedy, these imaginary conversations and incidents of my conjuring up, and you saying, 'Yes, yes, I remember, I remember.' Fie, fie, dear friend, it was clumsy of you. Again, those English newspapers, with their celebrated case which you were so greedy to peruse. Your explanation did not blind me. I knew why you bought and read them so eagerly. There were here to my hand the pieces of a puzzle not difficult to put together. Let me tell you--you deceived not one of us completely. My sister says, 'That man is not Basil Whittingham.' My niece says no word--her grief is too great--she suffers, through you, a martyrdom; but she doubts you none the less. Some strong confirmation--I know not what--of her doubts you presented her with this very night when you spoke so freely of Old Corrie's death."
"Curse you!" cried Chaytor. "You drew me on."
"Could I guess what was coming when his name was introduced? Could I divine what you were about to say? Take this from me, my friend; my niece knows something of Old Corrie which neither you nor I know, and when she placed her hand on your arm, and looked into those eyes of yours which shifted and wavered beneath her gaze, you felt as I felt, that she accused you of lying. Even her maid, Emily, who never set eyes on Basil Whittingham, believes not in you. And the fault is all your own. It is you, and you alone, who have supplied the evidence against yourself. I see in your face an intention of blustering and denying. Abandon it, dear friend. So far as we are concerned, the game is up."
"So you mean to say that you withdraw from the marriage contract between me and Annette?"
"It is not I who withdraw; it is she, who will choose death rather. She may consider herself bound--I cannot say; but she and you will never stand side by side at the altar."
"The best thing I can do is to make myself scarce."
"That is, to disappear?"
"You can express it in those words if you choose. Mind, I do not leave your hospitable abode because I am afraid. What is there to be afraid of? I can afford to laugh at what you have said, which is false from beginning to end, but I am sick of your ways. You have done pretty well out of me; you are a cunning old bird, and you have feathered your nest with my feathers. I calculate that you have at least five thousand pounds of my money in your pocket."