“I beg your pardon,” he said quietly. “I understood Mr. Thorndyke to say, I believe, that he had given a carriage to a certain lady. Am I correct?”
Thorndyke turned upon him sharply. There was a sudden silence in the crowded room. Matravers’ clear, cold voice, although scarcely raised above the pitch of ordinary conversation, had penetrated to its furthest corner.
“And if I did, sir! What——”
“These gentlemen will bear me witness that you did say so?” Matravers interrupted calmly. “I regret to have to use unpleasant language, Mr. Thorndyke, but I am compelled to tell you, and these gentlemen, that your statement is a lie!”
Thorndyke was a florid and a puffy man. The veins upon his temples stood out like whipcord. He was not a pleasant sight to look upon.
“What do you mean, sir?” he spluttered. “The carriage was mine before she had it. Everybody recognizes it.”
“I am compelled to tell you, and these gentlemen, that your statement is a lie!”
“Exactly. The carriage was yours. You intended every one to recognize it. But you have omitted to state, both here and in other places, that the lady bought that carriage from you for two hundred and sixty guineas—a good deal more than its worth, I should imagine. You heard her say that she was thinking of buying a victoria, and you offered her yours—pressed her to buy it. It was too small for your horses, you said, and you were hard up. You even had it sent round to her stables without her consent. I have heard this story before, sir, and I have furnished myself with proofs of its falsehood. This, gentlemen,” he added, drawing some papers from his pocket, “is Mr. Thorndyke’s receipt for the two hundred and sixty guineas for a victoria, signed, as you will see, in his own handwriting, and here is the lady’s cheque with Mr. Thorndyke’s endorsement, cancelled and paid.”