“Yes, yes!” sobbed the widow, “and knew that daguerreotype!” she pointed to the desk.

Brooks turned quickly in that direction.  Luckily his back was towards her, and she could not see his face, and the quick, startled look that came into his eyes.  But when they again met hers, it was gone, and even their eager intensity had changed to a gentle commiseration.  “You have only his word for it, Mrs. Wade,” he said gently, “and in telling your secret to another, you have shorn the rascal of half his power over you.  And he knew it.  Now, dismiss the matter from your mind and leave it all to me.  I will be here a few minutes before nine—­and alone in this room.  Let your visitor be shown in here, and don’t let us be disturbed.  Don’t be alarmed,” he added with a faint twinkle in his eye, “there will be no fuss and no exposure!”

It lacked a few minutes of nine when Mr. Brooks was ushered into the sitting-room.  As soon as he was alone he quietly examined the door and the windows, and having satisfied himself, took his seat in a chair casually placed behind the door.  Presently he heard the sound of voices and a heavy footstep in the passage.  He lightly felt his waistcoat pocket—­it contained a pretty little weapon of power and precision, with a barrel scarcely two inches long.

The door opened, and the person outside entered the room.  In an instant Brooks had shut the door and locked it behind him.  The man turned fiercely, but was faced by Brooks quietly, with one finger calmly hooked in his waistcoat pocket.  The man slightly recoiled from him—­not as much from fear as from some vague stupefaction.  “What’s that for?  What’s your little game?” he said half contemptuously.

“No game at all,” returned Brooks coolly.  “You came here to sell a secret.  I don’t propose to have it given away first to any listener.”

“You don’t—­who are you?”

“That’s a queer question to ask of the man you are trying to personate—­but I don’t wonder!  You’re doing it d——­d badly.”

“Personate—­you?” said the stranger, with staring eyes.

“Yes, me,” said Brooks quietly.  “I am the only man who escaped from the robbery that night at Heavy Tree Hill and who went home by the Overland Coach.”

The stranger stared, but recovered himself with a coarse laugh.  “Oh, well! we’re on the same lay, it appears!  Both after the widow—­afore we show up her husband.”

“Not exactly,” said Brooks, with his eyes fixed intently on the stranger.  “You are here to denounce a highwayman who is dead and escaped justice.  I am here to denounce one who is living!—­Stop! drop your hand; it’s no use.  You thought you had to deal only with a woman to-night, and your revolver isn’t quite handy enough.  There! down!—­down!  So!  That’ll do.”

“You can’t prove it,” said the man hoarsely.

“Fool!  In your story to that woman you have given yourself away.  There were but two travelers attacked by the highwaymen.  One was killed—­I am the other.  Where do you come in?  What witness can you be—­except as the highwayman that you are?  Who is left to identify Wade but—­his accomplice!”