He made no reply. He saw that we were in possession of all the facts concerning his disgraceful past. I could see how intensely agitated he had become, and though he was striving to conceal his fear, yet his thin, sinewy hands were visibly trembling.
“You admit, by your silence, that you were author of that brutal outrage!” exclaimed Hartwig quickly. “In it, my friend here narrowly escaped with his life. Now, answer me this question,” he demanded imperiously. “With what motive did you launch that bomb at the Grand Duke’s carriage?”
“With the same motive that every attempt is made,” was his bold reply.
“You lie!” Hartwig said bluntly. “That plot was not yours. Confess it.”
“No plot is mine. The various revolutionary circles form plots, and I, as the unknown head, approve of them. But,” asked the spy suddenly, “who are you that you should question me thus?”
“I have already given you my name,” he said. “Ivan Arapoff, of Petersburg.”
“Then, Mr Arapoff, I think we may change the topic of conversation,” said the man, suddenly quite calm and collected. I detected that, though an unprincipled scoundrel and without either conscience or remorse, his was yet a strong and impelling personality—a man who, among the enthusiastic students and the younger generation of Russia, which form the bulk of the revolutionists, would no doubt be listened to and obeyed as a leader.
“Good. If you wish me to leave you, I will do so. I will go and have a little chat with your interesting and enlightened friends downstairs,” exclaimed Hartwig with a triumphant laugh. Then, turning to me, he added: “Come, Mr Trewinnard, let’s go.”
“No!” gasped the spy. “No, stop! I—I want to fully understand what your intentions are—now that you know the truth concerning the identity of ‘The One’ and other recent matters.”
“Intentions!” echoed the great detective. “I have none. I have merely forewarned you of what you must expect—the fate of the informer, unless—”