"I saw it—with my own eyes I saw it!"
"Then your eyes deceived you. Evidently you are not acquainted with Lord
Vernon's writing, my friend. Shall I show you a sample? Wait."
He went to a desk, got out a despatch-box, unlocked it, and ran rapidly through its contents, while Tellier watched him with bloodshot eyes.
"This will do," Collins said, at last. "A note to Monsieur Delcassé, with which you are perhaps familiar, since it has recently been made public. Look at it."
Tellier almost snatched it—one glance was enough. There was absolutely no resemblance between that tall, angular hand and the writing of the note. He looked at the signature, at the seal—there could be no doubting them. His lips were quivering, his fat cheeks hanging flaccid, as he handed the paper back.
"You are playing with me," he said, thickly. "What I have seen, I have seen. What I know, I know. You cannot trick me. I will go to the Prince of Markeld—to Prince Ferdinand himself—"
"To whomever you please," interrupted Collins, "only go at once," and he snatched open the door.
Tellier hesitated an instant, glanced at the other's face, and went.
And Collins, closing the door behind him, mopped the perspiration from his forehead.
"Well done, my friend," he said; "exceedingly well done!"