“I hold your life and fortune in my hand. Give up that girl whom you call your daughter.”
Potts stood for a moment staring.
“The devil you do!” he cried, at last. “Come, I call that good, rich, racy! Will your sublime Excellency have the kindness to explain yourself? If my life is in your hand it’s in a devilish lean and weak one. It strikes me you’ve got some kink in your brain—some notion or other. Out with it, and let us see what you’re driving at!”
“Do you know a man named Cigole?” said Langhetti.
“Cigole!” replied Potts, after a pause, in which he had stared hard at Langhetti; “well, what if I do? Perhaps I do, and perhaps I don’t.”
“He is in my power,” said Langhetti, vehemently.
“Much good may he do you then, for I’m sure when he was in my power he never did any good to me.”
“He will do good in this case, at any rate,” said Langhetti, with an effort at calmness. “He was connected with you in a deed which you must remember, and can tell to the world what he knows.”
“Well, what if he does?” said Potts.
“He will tell,” cried Langhetti, excitedly, “the true story of the Despard murder.”