“Then your name never was Michael Lanyard?”
“Never, but ...”
During a long pause the secretary fidgeted inwardly but had the wisdom to refrain from showing further inquisitiveness. He could see that strong passions were working in Victor: a hand, extended upon the table, unclosed and closed with a peculiar clutching action; the muscles contracted round mouth and eyes, moulding the face into a cast of disquieting malevolence. The voice, when at length it resumed, was bitter.
“But Michael Lanyard was my enemy ... and is to-day.... He became a lover of Sofia’s mother, he had a hand in overturning plans I had made, he humiliated, mocked me.... And to-day he is interfering again.... But ...”
Victor sank back in his chair. Suddenly that unholy grin of his flashed and faded.
“But now his impertinence fails, his insolence over-reaches itself. Now I have the whip-hand and ... I shall use it!”
Vindictiveness that could find relief only in action mastered the man.
“Be good enough to take this dictation.”
Karslake turned to the table and opened a portfolio of illuminated Spanish leather.
“Ready, sir,” he said, with pencil poised.