"Burnt."
The stranger knit his brows. He must have had a vision of the good old days when there were peremptory methods of making the contumacious speak:
"Very well. We shall see about that. And the ebony box?"
"Burnt."
"Ah," he growled, "you're getting at me, my good man!" He twisted the other's arm with a pitiless hand. "Yesterday, Rudolf Kesselbach, you walked into the Crédit Lyonnais, on the Boulevard des Italiens, hiding a parcel under your overcoat. You hired a safe . . . let us be exact: safe No. 16, in recess No. 9. After signing the book and paying your safe-rent, you went down to the basement; and, when you came up again, you no longer had your parcel with you. Is that correct?"
"Quite."
"Then the box and the pocket-case are at the Crédit Lyonnais?"
"No."
"Give me the key of your safe."
"No."