Hardly had my sister left me than there were more voices below, and I heard Mr. Woodward tell Booth that he had an order from Judge Penfold for a private interview with me.

“Better go right upstairs then, Mr. Woodward,” was the jailer’s reply.  “He’s all alone.”

I wondered what the merchant’s visit could portend, but had little time for speculation.

“So, sir, they’ve got you fast,” said Mr. Woodward sharply as he faced me.  “Fast, and no mistake.”

“What do you want?” I demanded boldly, coming at once to the front.

“What do I want?” repeated the merchant, looking behind him to make sure that Booth had not followed him.  “What do I want?  Why, I want to help you, Strong, that’s what I want.”

I could not help but smile.  The idea of Mr. Woodward helping any one, least of all myself!

“The only way you can help me is to set me free,” I returned.

“Oh, I can’t do that.  You are held on the Canby charge solely.”

“But you told me you wanted me arrested.”

“So I did, but I intend to give you a chance—­ that is, if you will do what I want.”

“But why did you want me arrested?”

“You know well enough, Strong.”

“On the contrary, I haven’t the least idea.”

“Stuff and nonsense.  See here, if you want to get off without further trouble, hand over those papers.”

“What papers?”

“The papers you took last night,” replied Mr. Woodward, sharply.

I was truly astonished.  How in the world had he found out about the statement dropped by Stumpy?  Was it possible there had been a meeting between the two?  It looked like it.

“I haven’t got the papers,” I rejoined.

“Don’t tell me a falsehood sir,” he thundered.

“It’s true.”

“Do you deny you have the packet?”

“I do.”

“Come, Strong, that story won’t answer.  Hand it over.”

“I haven’t it.”

“Where is it?”

“I lost it,” I replied, before I had time to think.

“Lost it!” he cried anxiously.

“Yes, sir,” I returned boldly, resolved to make the best of it, now the cat was out of the bag.  “Either that or it was stolen from me.”

He looked at me in silence for a moment.

“Do you expect me to believe all your lies?” he demanded finally.

“I don’t care what you believe,” I answered.  “I tell the truth.  And one question I want to ask you, Aaron Woodward.  Why are you so anxious to gain possession of Nicholas Weaver’s dying statement?”

The merchant gave a cry of astonishment, nay, horror.  He turned pale and glared at me fiercely.

“Nicholas Weaver’s dying statement!” he ejaculated.  “What do you know of Nicholas Weaver?”

Now I had spoken I was almost sorry I had said what I had.  Yet I could not but notice the tremendous effect my words had produced.