"How dare you--I have no brother," he gasped. Then as suddenly this strength, born of anger, went out of him, and he became weak as a child. Van Zwieten picked him up like a baby and flung him roughly into a chair.
"Sit there," he said sternly. "I mean to know the whole of this story," and he busied himself lighting the lamp.
"There is--no--no story."
"There is, and, what's more, you will tell it to me."
"I won't," cried Mr. Scarse, shivering and forgetting his previous denial. "You can't force me to speak."
"I can--I will," said the Dutchman, grimly. Then, the lamp being lighted, he sat down in an armchair on the other side of the fireplace opposite to his host and produced a cigar. "Begin, please."
Scarse staggered to his feet--he was shaken by his own nerves and Van Zwieten's rough treatment--and moved slowly toward the door. The Dutchman rose and ran past him with a lightness and speed surprising in so heavy a man. He reached the door before Mr. Scarse did. The next moment it was locked and the key in Van Zwieten's pocket. "Go back to your seat, please," said Van Zwieten, politely.
"I won't--I am master here," cried the old man, his voice shrill with anger. "What do you mean by treating me like this? I'll call the police."
The Dutchman pulled out the key and held it toward Scarse. "As you please," he said with a sneer. "Call the police and I'll give you in charge."
"Give me in charge, you villain!--for what?"