"Have a care!" he said, hoarsely. "That expression will cost you dear!"
Collins smiled contemptuously.
"Oh," he retorted; "so it's blackmail! I might have known from your appearance. Well, my dear sir, you have mistaken your men. You have nothing which we care to buy. You would better go."
A purple vein stood out across Tellier's forehead, as he came a step nearer.
"Do not be too sure, monsieur," he said. "You play a bold game, but it does not for an instant deceive me. Lord Vernon is no more ill than I. It is useless to deny it—I have that here which proves it—written with his own hand—yes, pardie, written in my presence!" and with trembling fingers he took from his pocketbook a folded slip of paper.
"Indeed?" said Collins, with mild curiosity. "This is truly wonderful," and he held out his hand.
But Tellier drew back a step, unfolded the note and held it open between his fingers.
"You may read it," he said, his eyes flashing with triumph. "But come no nearer."
Collins leisurely got out his monocle, polished it with his handkerchief, adjusted it, and scanned the note.
"Really," he said, "unless you can hold it a little steadier, I fear I can't read it."