“To what am I indebted for the pleasure of this visit?” asked Mortlake, glowering at the newcomers, as they filed in, and Mr. Bell closed the door behind them.  “Why didn’t you send up your cards, and I’d have torn them up and thrown them out of the window.”

“Just what I thought you’d do, so we came up ourselves,” said Mr. Bell cheerily.  “Now, look here, Mortlake—­no, sit down.  I’ve come up here to right a wrong.  You’ve tried to do all in your power to injure these young people, whose only fault is that they have built a better aeroplane than you have.  It’s their turn now, and you’ve got to grin and bear it.”

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. Bell stepped to the door.

“Mr. Budd,” he called softly, and in response the man of Lost Brig Island, but now dressed and barbered into civilization appeared.

“Pierce Budd!” gasped Mortlake.

“Yes, Pierce Budd, whom you ruined,” said Mr. Bell.  “But for my persuasions, he would have sought to wipe out his wrongs in personal violence.  But you needn’t fear him now,” as Mortlake looked round with hunted eyes; “that is, if you sign.”

“I’ll sign,” gasped out the trapped man.  He reached for an inkstand.  “Give them to me.”

“I’ll read them first,” said the mining man, and then, in slow, measured tones, he read out the contents of the convicting documents.  As he concluded, Mortlake seemed about to collapse.  But he took the papers with a trembling hand, and wrote: