"That you shall never have."
"Oh yes, I shall!"
"I say you shall not! You can go and tell my story where you please; I shall tell yours; and we'll see who will be believed--Alfred Dombrain, the respectable, trusted lawyer, or Mrs. Belswin, the divorced woman! Bah! You can't frighten me with slanders. There is nothing to connect Dombrain the solicitor with Damberton, the convict."
"Indeed! What about this?"
She held up a photograph which she had taken out of her pocket--a photograph resembling Mr. Dombrain, but which had written under it--
Alfred Damberton.
"You may alter your face," said Mrs. Belswin maliciously, "but you can't very well alter your handwriting. And now I look at you, I really don't think there is much alteration. A beard when there used to be only a moustache, more wrinkles, less smiles. Oh, I think any one will recognise this for you."
Dombrain made a snatch at the photograph, but she was too quick for him.
"Not quite. This is my evidence against you. I heard in America, through my useful detectives, that you were lawyer to my husband; so, thinking I might require your help, and knowing I shouldn't get it without some difficulty, I took the trouble of writing to New Zealand for a full report of your very interesting case. You've cost me a good deal of money, my dear sir; but they pay well on the opera-stage, so I don't mind. I have all the papers telling your little story. I have this photograph with your own signature, proving the identity of Damberton with Dombrain; so taking all things into consideration, I think you had better do what I ask."
She had so completely got the better of Mr. Dombrain that she had reduced him to a kind of moral pulp, and he leaned back in his chair utterly crushed.