“A telegram to the police at Ventimiglia will prevent you,” I answered quite calmly. “You see that city guard yonder?” I said, pointing to a man in uniform standing not far off upon the kerb. “I have only now to demand your arrest, and you will never again enjoy freedom your whole life long.”
“But you don’t think I should be such a fool as to allow myself to be taken, do you?” he said, his air of defiance still perfect.
He went on chewing the end of his Virginia. “Your description is too well known. You will not be at liberty a single hour after I make my statement to the Prefect.” Then I paused, and, looking straight into his evil face, added, “There is, however, yet another way.”
“How?”
“A way in which you may avoid arrest—the only way.”
“Explain,” he said. “This is very interesting.”
“By being perfectly frank with me,” I replied, “and by making explanation of your work of espionage in London.”
“You will never know that,” he replied quickly. “Cause my arrest if you wish, but upon the incidents of the past year my lips are sealed, because I know that you can never secure my conviction in Italy.”
“Then you still defy me, and refuse to explain anything?”
It was my endeavour to obtain from him the secret of how despatches had so frequently been stolen.