"
During the latter part of this speech, Farrington had turned as white as
death. He sat bolt upright, with his hands clutching convulsively the edge
of the seat. He felt that something terrible was pending, and a horrible,
craven fear overwhelmed him! He knew that paper held up there only too
well. It was simply a sheet of cheap writing-paper, and yet it was his
ruin. It was damning him as a scoundrel and a sneak in the presence of
these people!
"Cannot the last speaker explain how his name happens to be here and what
he knows about that gold?"
These words fell like the knell of doom upon Farrington's ears. What was
he to do? But something must be done.
"What d'ye mean?" he gasped. "What d'ye want me to explain?"
"About this writing."
"What writin', an' whar did ye git any writin' of mine? It's some mean
trick!" he shouted, jumping to his feet. "This villain has come here fer
the purpose of injurin' me! I tell ye it's false! it's false!"
"But what about this?" Stephen insisted, calmly holding up one of the
papers. "And there are others."
"What is it? What is it? Read it, Steve," came the cry from the audience.
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