‘Who is Orlando Schmidt?’ he asked, apparently unmoved.
‘Surely you remember him,’ answered Castiglione. ‘You cannot have already forgotten Orlando Schmidt, and Carlo Pozzi of Palermo, and Paolo Pizzuti of Messina!’
The treasurer’s face did not change, but his right hand moved and disappeared below the edge of the green velvet to get at his pistol. Castiglione was ready, and was too quick for him.
‘Keep your hands on the table and don’t call, or I’ll fire,’ he said sternly.
The treasurer looked down the barrel of a full-sized army revolver, and beyond it he saw Castiglione’s eyes and resolute jaw. There is one point in which the breed to which he belonged does not resemble that of the European adventurer; it is a breed of cowards always ready with firearms but never able to face them. Moreover, Castiglione had the advantage.
‘Don’t shoot!’ cried the man in manifest terror.
‘Sign this or I shall,’ answered Castiglione, not lowering his revolver. With the other hand he pushed across the table a sheet of paper on which he had previously written something; he then took a fountain pen from an inner pocket and laid it before the treasurer. ‘Sign,’ he said.
The treasurer offered no resistance, and his fingers shook visibly as he took up the pen and bent over the paper.
‘Under protest,’ he said feebly.