"You need not pretend ignorance," said the baronet coldly. "These are letters written by you to my wife at Folkestone under her maiden name of Amelia Dicksfall, and which prove that you were her lover long before she met me."
"I acknowledge it," said Ellersby insolently. "And what have you to say about it?"
"Simply this," replied Balscombe, rising, "that you may thank God that I do not kill you where you sit. But my wife proved to be such a worthless woman she is not fit to be defended, and knowing this, you have the daring to ask me for my ward's hand. Do you think I would give her to you, a scoundrel, a profligate?--never!"
"I think you will," said Ellersby coldly, "for the very good and sufficient reason that I can force you to."
"How so?"
"You know well enough," sneered the other. "If the police ask me who committed the Jermyn Street murder, I can tell them who did it--Rupert Balscombe."
"You scoundrel!--do you mean to say I killed my wife?"
"I can swear it--and I will, too, if you don't give me your ward!"
"It's a cursed lie!" cried the baronet, white with fury; "where are your proofs?"
"Open that hiding place, and you'll find them."