“She abstracted them, without a doubt, for she had this duplicate key of the safe,” the old man declared.
“You will say nothing, I command you.”
“You! How can you impose silence upon me, pray?” he demanded fiercely. “You are a foreigner, and you are holding a State secret.”
“I shall hold it at present for safe keeping.”
“Then I shall go straight to the King and lay the whole matter before him.”
“You threatened to do a similar action before,” said the other very quietly. “I repeat my warning—that silence is best.”
“Then I tell you frankly that I refuse to heed your warning. It is my duty to my Sovereign to tell him the truth.”
“Very well—go to him and tell him—at your own peril.”
“Peril!” he echoed. “What peril?”
“The peril at which I have already hinted, Signor Ghelardi,” he answered in a low, hard voice. “Do you wish me to be more explicit? Well—there is in a village called Wroxham, in Norfolk, a mystery—the murder of a man named Arthur Benyon, a British naval officer—which has never yet been cleared up. One man can clear it up—an eyewitness who is, fortunately, still alive and who knows you. And if it is cleared up, then you, Luigi Ghelardi—who at the time occupied the office of Chief of the German Secret Service, and was directing the operation of the horde of spies who are still infesting East Anglia, will be confronted with certain very awkward questions.”