“I have proof,” I replied ambiguously, for I did not intend to show my hand.
“Then you are at liberty to use it for whatever purpose you like,” he answered defiantly. “But we were alone.”
“Ah!” I exclaimed quickly. “Then you admit your identity?”
“I admit nothing.”
“Until I can show proof positive, eh? Until I can bring those who will bear witness that, on the twenty-fourth of June, you were at number 94, Queen’s-gate Gardens; that you sent for me; that on my arrival you tempted me to marry Beryl Wynd; that you accompanied me to the church of St. Ann’s, and that, having accepted the promise of payment, you afterwards attempted to induce me to take her life.”
“Lies—all of it.”
“We shall see. You tried to take my life. Revenge is now mine,” I added in a hard, distinct voice.
It may have been only my fancy, yet I could not help noticing that the word revenge caused him to shrink, and regard me with some misgiving.
“How?” he inquired.
“No,” I responded firmly; “we are enemies. That is sufficient. I have discovered the whole plot, therefore rest assured that those who victimised both Beryl and myself, and have made dastardly attempts upon our lives, shall not go unpunished.”