Blake’s lips became firm. He stepped forward and placed the knuckles of his left hand upon a table that stood between himself and Michaels. His eyebrows narrowed and he looked sharply at the man who had questioned him.
“I have just received a telephone call,” Blake’s voice came terse and emphatic. “A man who says he is James Michaels states that he is in New York; that he missed the train arriving here at eleven o’clock, and that he is coming by cab.
“If he is not an impostor, you are! Let me ask you again — are you James Michaels?”
“No!”
“I thought not.” Blake laughed harshly. “The impostor would be the one who would come first.
“What is your purpose here? Why are you representing yourself to be James Michaels?”
“Why are you pretending to be Wilbur Blake?”
The millionaire ignored the question. He continued to glare at the other man, as though deliberating the best course to follow. Of the two, the false Michaels was more calm, even though he was in the other’s home.
“Your name is not Blake,” the visitor said coldly. “It happens to be Dodge. Your friend” — there was a sarcastic tone — “Rodney Paget unwisely let out that fact when he visited you in a house near Lexington Avenue.
“At that time I did not hear enough to form a complete supposition. Later, I met the manager of the Goliath Hotel. He recalled that Wilbur Blake had once asked him to cash a check and that he had called upon Rodney Paget to identify Blake. Paget had gone away with Blake, saying that he would cash the check for him.”