"In another moment, I shall probably kick you out."
Tellier's face turned a deep purple and his white teeth gleamed behind
his moustache.
"Have a care!" he said, hoarsely. "That expression will cost you dear!"
Collins smiled contemptuously.
"Oh," he retorted; "so it's blackmail! I might have known from your
appearance. Well, my dear sir, you have mistaken your men. You have
nothing which we care to buy. You would better go."
A purple vein stood out across Tellier's forehead, as he came a step
nearer.
"Do not be too sure, monsieur," he said. "You play a bold game, but it
does not for an instant deceive me. Lord Vernon is no more ill than I.
It is useless to deny it--I have that here which proves it--written with
his own hand--yes, pardie, written in my presence!" and with trembling
fingers he took from his pocketbook a folded slip of paper.
"Indeed?" said Collins, with mild curiosity. "This is truly wonderful,"
and he held out his hand.
But Tellier drew back a step, unfolded the note and held it open between
his fingers.
"You may read it," he said, his eyes flashing with triumph. "But come no
nearer."
Collins leisurely got out his monocle, polished it with his
handkerchief, adjusted it, and scanned the note.
"Really," he said, "unless you can hold it a little steadier, I fear I
can't read it.
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