me, and certainly did not understand. Grant, however, understood. He told me later it was just in time to prevent his coming out.
With one hand supporting me on the edge of the dressing-*table, I was now close to Boyde, bent double in front of him, staring up into his eyes.
"Give me that razor," I said, and he obeyed, as I felt sure he would. That is, his fingers moved away from it, and I quickly pushed it out of his reach. With my other hand I seized his arm. I raised my face to his as much as my wound allowed.
"Boyde," I said, "I know everything!"
If I expected a collapse, as I think was the case, I was disappointed. Nothing happened. He did not move. Not a muscle, not even an eyelash flickered. He stared down into my upturned face without a word, waiting for what was coming; control of the features, of mouth and eyes in particular, was absolute. And it was this silence, this calm assurance, giving me no help, even making it more difficult for me, that, I think, combined to set me going. I was fairly wound up; I saw red. The words poured out, hot, bitter, scathing.
The moment I ended, he smiled, as he said very quietly:
"I don't know what you're talking about. You are fearfully excited and you will regret your words. I do wish you would get back into bed. All this is awfully bad for you in your weak condition."
I was flabbergasted. All the wind had been taken from my sails. A touch would have sent me to the floor, but he did not touch me. He merely gazed into my face with an air of calm patience that had pity in it, a hint even of contempt.
There was a little silence after he had spoken. For a moment I had no notion what to do or say. Then, quite suddenly, up flashed my plan. I was less excited now, my voice was well under control.
"Boyde," I said, "now, at last, I've caught you in a
worse thing still. You have forged a letter and a signa-
