"It doesn't bother me what you call it," Simon said calmly. "I want twenty-five thousand pounds to forget that you forged my signature. How about it?"
"You can't get it," Tanfold spat out. "If I published that photograph—''
"I should laugh myself sick," said the Saint. "I'm afraid there's something you'd better get wise to, brother. My father isn't a prominent Melbourne business man and social reformer at all, except for your benefit; and you can paste enlargements of that picture all over Melbourne Town Hall for all I care. Make some inquiries outside the bar downstairs, gorgeous, and get up to date. Come along, now — which is it to be? Twenty-five thousand smackers or the hoosegow? Take your choice."
Mr. Tanfold's face was turning green.
"I haven't got so much money in cash," he squawked.
"I'll give you a week to find it," said the Saint mercilessly, "and I don't really care much if you do go bankrupt in the process. I find you neither ornamental nor useful. But just in case you think forgery is the only charge you have to answer, you might like to listen to this."
He went through the communicating door to the bedroom and was back in a moment. Suddenly through the door, Mr. Tanfold heard the sounds of his own voice.
"Let's talk business… I've got a photograph that was taken of you while you were at the studio…"
With his face going paler and paler, Mr. Tanfold listened. He made no sound until the record was finished, and then he let out an abrupt squeal.
"But that isn't all of it!" he yelled. "It leaves off before the place where you gave me the cheque!"