"Of your money?" queried Gilbert, with a quiet smile.
"Of my money."
"No, no; whatever else we do let us be truthful. Of Basil Whittingham's money."
"Oh, you can stick to that fiction as long as you like. Have you anything else to say to me?"
"Yes. You are not free to go yet."
"What! Will you stop me?"
"No; I will follow you, and will accuse you publicly. We will have the case in the papers, and you shall have an opportunity of clearing yourself of the accusation I bring against you. Basil Whittingham maybe alive; Old Corrie may be alive; people who know really who you are may be alive, and they shall all be found to be brought forward to acquit or condemn you. If you want noise, fuss, publicity, you shall have them. There is, however, an alternative."
"Let me hear it."
"Not being Basil Whittingham, you have committed forgery by affixing his name to two documents in my possession. Not being Basil Whittingham, you have obtained by fraud the fortune which was his. So apprehensive of detection are you, that you would not deposit this money in a bank, as a right-minded gentleman would have done, but you carry it about with you, in secret pockets, on your person." Chaytor started. "I could put my finger on the precise spots in which Basil Whittingham's fortune is concealed. It is again you, dear friend, who have revealed this to me. You have a habit of raising your hand--you are doing it unconsciously at this moment--to your side, to your breast, to assure yourself that the money is safe. Shall we make terms?"
"Name them."