Dying Statement of Nicholas Weaver Concerning the Forgeries for which Carson Strong Was Sent to State’s Prison.

CHAPTER VII

 A war of words

No words of mine can express the feeling that came over me as I read the superscription written on the envelope I had picked up in the old tool house.

Was it possible that this envelope contained the solution of the mystery that had taken away our good name and sent my father to prison?  The very thought made me tremble.

The packet was not a thick one.  In fact, it was so thin that for an instant I imagined the envelope was empty.  But a hasty examination proved my fears groundless.

In nervous excitement I put the lantern down on the top of a barrel, and then drew from the envelope the single shoot of foolscap that it contained.  A glance showed me that the pages were closely written in a cramped hand extremely difficult to read.

For the moment I forgot everything else—­ forgot that the Widow Canby’s house had been robbed and that I was on the track of the robber—­ and drawing close to the feeble light the lantern afforded, strove with straining eyes and palpitating heart to decipher the contents of the written pages.

  “I, Nicholas Weaver, being on the point of death from pneumonia, do
  make this my last statement, which I hereby swear is true in every
  particular.”

This was the beginning of the document which I hoped would in some way free my father’s character from the stain that now rested on it.

Exactly who Nicholas Weaver was I did not know, though it ran in my mind that I had heard this name mentioned by my father during the trial.

Beyond the opening paragraph I have quoted the handwriting was almost illegible, and in the dim light it was only here and there that I could pick out such words as “bank,” “assumed,” “risk,” “name,” and so forth, which gave but an inkling of the real contents of the precious document.

“It’s too bad,” was my thought.  “I’d give all I possess to be able to read this right off, word for word.”

Hardly had the reflection crossed my mind when a noise outside startled me.  I had just time enough to thrust the paper into my pocket when the door was swung open and the tramp appeared.

He was evidently as much surprised as I was, for he stopped short in amazement, while the short pipe he carried between his lips fell unnoticed to the floor.

I rightly conjectured he had not noticed the light of the lantern and fully believed the tool house tenantless.

“You here!” he cried.

“It looks like it, doesn’t it?” was all I could find to reply, and as I spoke my hand sought the pistol I carried.

“What brought you here?” he demanded roughly.

“I came after you,” I returned as coolly as I could; and by this time I had the pistol where it could be brought into instant use.