"
Mortlake's jaw dropped. His old bullying manner was gone now. Old Man
Harding cackled inanely, but said nothing. Only his long, lean fingers
drummed on the table. Fanning turned a pasty yellow. He had some idea of
what was to come. His eyes fell to the floor, as if seeking some loophole
of escape there.
"Well," growled Mortlake, "what have you got to say to me?"
"Not much," snapped the mining man, "but I wish to read you something."
He drew from his pocket a paper.
"This is the confession of Joey Eccles," he said quietly. "I've another by
Frederick Palmer."
Mortlake leaped up and sprang toward the Westerner, but Mr. Bell held up
his hand.
"Don't try to destroy them," he said. "They are only copies. The originals
are by this time in the hands of the authorities at Sandy Beach."
Mortlake sank back with staring eyes and white cheeks.
"What do you want me to do?" he gasped.
"Listen to these confessions and then sign your name to them, signifying
your belief that they are true documents."
"And if not?"
"Well, if not," said Mr. Bell, measuring his words, "do you recollect that
wild-cat gold mine scheme you were interested in more years ago than
you'll care to remember?"
Mortlake seemed to shrivel. But he flared up in a last blaze of defiance.
"You can't scare me by rattling old bones," he said, "What do you know
about it?"
For reply, Mr.
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