“It is quite unnecessary,” he exclaimed.
“Unnecessary? Why?”
“Because I don’t believe one word of this elegantly romantic story of yours.”
“But I have brought you evidence in black and white that Ogle was a spy!” I cried.
“Evidence of a sort,” he answered carelessly, returning to his table and sinking into his armchair. “You have brought these things to me in order to induce me to believe that they were in the dead man’s possession instead of where they really were—in your own.”
“It is false,” I protested, flushing at his base and dogged insinuations.
“So is this elaborate so-called evidence you have brought me,” he answered.
“In what way?” I demanded.
“You wish to know,” he cried. “Well, I will tell you. First, the passport is a forged one, and was never written in St Petersburg.”
“Why?” I cried in dismay. “How can you tell?”