“This, then, is a vengeance!” said Stocmar, trembling from head to foot.
“Not if you do not drive me to it. There never were easier terms to escape a heavy penalty. Give me the address of these persons.”
“But I know nothing of them. I have not, amongst my whole acquaintance, one named Hawke.”
The old man made no reply, and looked puzzled and confused. Stocmar saw his advantage, and hastily added,—
“I am ready to pledge you my oath to this.”
“Ask him, then, for the address of Mrs. Penthony Morris, father, and of the young lady her reputed daughter,” interposed Alfred.
“Ay, what say you to this?”
“What I say is, that I am not here to be questioned as to the whereabouts of every real or imaginary name you can think of.”
“Restive again, Stocmar? What, are you so bent on your own ruin that you will exhaust the patience of one who never could boast too much of that quality? I tell you that if I leave this room without a full and explicit answer to my demand,—and in writing, too, in your own hand,—you'll not see me again except as your prosecutor in a court of justice. And now, for the last time, where is this woman?”
“She was in Italy; at Rome all the winter,” said Stocmar, doggedly.