"That is a very serious assertion. You should be certain of your ground to make such a charge."
"He can't prove it. It's a lie!" repeated Peter Bolton eagerly.
"Mr. Bolton is the father of the present crisis," I said. "He is the financial backer of the agitators that the Committee of Safety has been organized to put down. It was not so much as two weeks ago that he paid thirty thousand dollars to the Council of Nine."
Peter Bolton attempted to resume his sarcastic air, and drew down the corners of his mouth into his sardonic mask, though his lip trembled with the effort.
"You can't believe lies like that," he said, in appeal to Partridge and Nelson.
"And last night," I continued, "he received two members of the Council of Nine in his office, and paid them a sum of money that I believe was ten thousand dollars. It may have been twenty. An armed outbreak is planned for to-night. If it comes, there stands the man who furnished the money for it." And I pointed an accusing finger at the spare, bent form of the arch-conspirator.
At this evidence of the accuracy of my information, the sallow face of Peter Bolton once more turned to an ashy gray, and he looked from side to side as though seeking some avenue of escape. Then he faced me.
"You're talking nonsense," he cried with tense determination in his voice. "Nobody will believe you. You ought to be sent to the asylum."
I looked into his eyes.
"Waldorf and Parks are within call," I said with calm and assured mendacity. "Shall I bring them in?"