"Well, young man (I haven't been told your name), since it has leaked out that my brother is a millionaire and a philanthropist, every known dodge in the begging-letter line and in the blackmailing line has been tried on us; but, for sheer brazenry, I must say that your tale beats all. My niece believes in you—more fool she!—but I'll tell you what I think: every word that you have told us—except, perhaps, the fact of my brother having been kidnapped by this man you call the Dumpling—is an entire concoction; and if he really has been kidnapped as you say, why, you are clearly the kidnapper's accomplice, and have come here to sound us, and to pave the way for the abominable blackmailing which you call holding to ransom. If any further proof of your confederacy with the blackmailer is needed, that proof is supplied by the facts which my niece has just made known to me. She tells me that only yesterday morning, when she and I were at my brother's country house, she found that someone had rowed out to the centre of the lake in our boat, and, supposing it was I who was in the boat and that I had fallen asleep, she swam out and found you in it. You were there, of course, in your capacity of spy and shadower to your employer, and in order to acquaint yourself with my brother's movements. It's a pity she didn't leave you to be drowned—not that you'll be that, for I clearly foresee another fate in store for you, and a less pleasant one. And now, if you please, I propose sending for the police. I wonder if they'll believe your story."
"No," I said smilingly, "they won't. I can tell you that before you send, if it will be saving you any trouble."
"Ho! ho!" she said, triumphantly. "So you admit that I'm one too many for you. You're not such a fool as I thought. Anyhow, you're 'cute enough to know when you're dealing with a clever woman. It's wise of you. If you had persisted in brazening me out with that preposterous tale, you'd have been clapped between four walls this very night. I mean what I say. But I'm not a hard-hearted woman, and, by the look of you, you ought to be a cut above being the accomplice of criminals and blackmailers."
After a pause, during which she regarded me with a stern but not altogether unfriendly eye, the good lady spoke again, this time almost pityingly:
"An accomplice of criminals and blackmailers! What brought you to it, young man? Drink—debt—gambling—or worse? Come, now, I don't want to be hard upon you. Make a clean breast of it, and I'll do what I can to help you back to an honest life. You have already confessed the falsehood of your story, and if——"
"I have done nothing of the sort," I interrupted indignantly. "My story is perfectly true—every word of it; and if you'll let me——"
"Your story perfectly true!" she thundered. "Why, you told me just now, with your own mouth, when I was going to send for the police—and that reminds me: I'll ring the bell and send for them now—that you knew they wouldn't believe it. If you're not the——"
"I know they won't believe it, because I've already told them," I cut in. "I see a telephone bell in the corner there. Ring up Inspector S——, of New Scotland Yard, or the Superintendent at —— Station, and ask them whether I haven't already been to them with the identical story. They don't believe me now, because they don't want to; but when the inquest is held and the facts come out, they'll find, and you'll find, that every word I have said is perfectly true. Or," I added—for she had actually rung the bell when threatening to send for the police, and the servant had come to the door in response—"or send out and buy an evening paper. You'll find the fact of the finding of the three bodies off Canvey Island, just as I have told you."
"You can go, Metcalfe," she said to the waiting servant. "I shan't want you at present."
Then she turned to me again.