then pointed a derisive finger. ‘“Then you do know. You have admitted it!”
“I admit nothing.”
“Now, Count, if you will be reasonable, we can do business. If not, you will get hurt.”
Count Sylvius threw up his eyes to the ceiling. “And you talk about bluff!” said he.
Holmes looked at him thoughtfully, like a master chess-player who meditates his crowning move. Then he threw open the table drawer and drew out a squat notebook.
“Do you know what I keep in this book?”
“No, sir, I do not!”
“You!”
“Me?”
“Yes, sir, you! You are all here—every action of your vile and dangerous life.”
“Damn you, Holmes!” cried the Count, with blazing eyes. “There are limits to my patience!”
“It’s all here, Count. The real facts as to the death of old Mrs. Harold, who left you the Blymer estate, which you so rapidly gambled away.”
“You are dreaming!”
“And the complete life history of Miss Minnie Warrender.”
“Tut! You will make nothing of that!”
“Plenty more here, Count. Here is the robbery in the train-de-luxe to the Riviera on February 13, 1892. Here is the forged cheque in the same year on the Crédit Lyonnais.”
“No; you’re wrong there.”
“Then I am right on the others! Now, Count, you
