Bow Street, when on the track of a criminal, does not neglect to open his correspondence."
I felt my hand tremble as it gripped the top rail of my chair, but I managed to command my voice to answer, coldly enough:
"One moment. Monsieur le Vicomte, before I do myself the pleasure of pitching you out of the window. You have detained me these five days in Paris, and have done so, you give me to understand, by the simple expedient of a lie. So far, so good. Will you do me the favor to complete the interesting self-exposure, and inform me of your reasons?"
"With all the pleasure in life. My plans were not ready—a little detail wanting, that is all. It is now supplied." He took a chair, seated himself at the table, and drew a folded paper from his breast-pocket. "It will be news to you, perhaps, that our uncle—our lamented uncle, if you choose—is dead these three weeks."
"Rest his soul!"
"Forgive me if I stop short of that pious hope." Alain hesitated, let his venom get the better of him, and spat out an obscure curse on his uncle's memory, which only betrayed the essential weakness of the man. Recovering himself, he went on: "I need not recall to you a certain scene (I confess too theatrical for my taste) arranged by the lawyer at his bedside; nor need I help you to an inkling of the contents of his last will. But possibly it may have slipped your memory that I gave Romaine fair warning, I promised him that I would raise the question of undue influence, and that I had my witnesses ready. I have added to them since, but I own to you that my case will be the stronger when you have obligingly signed the paper which I have the honour to submit to you." And he tossed it, unopened, across the table.
