“What is that?” asked Mr. Stanton, in a voice which strove to be composed.

“I mean this,” said Ralph, firmly, “that you yourself were the prime originator of the company—­that you engineered it through to the end—­ that you invested my money with the express intention of converting it to your own profit.  I charge you with this, that all, or nearly all the property I lost, went into your pocket.”

The color came and went in Mr. Stanton’s face.  He seemed staggered by this sudden and unexpected accusation, and did not at first make reply.

Feeling forced to speak at last, he said:  “This is very strange language, Mr. Pendleton.”

“It is unexpected, no doubt, for after all these years you probably thought it would remain forever unknown; but in what respect is it strange?  I have given you a statement of facts as directly as I could.”

“They are not facts.  Your charge is wholly false,” said the merchant, but his tone was not that of a man. who speaks the truth boldly.

“I wish I could believe it,” said Ralph.  “I wish I could believe that I was not deliberately swindled by one who professed to be my father’s friend.”

“On what authority do you bring this monstrous charge?” demanded Mr. Stanton, more boldly.  “How happens it that you have not made it before?”

“For the simple reason that I myself did not suspect any fraud.  I presumed that it was as you stated to me, and that your only fault was your injudicious investment.”

“Well, I admit that, as it turned out, the investment was injudicious.  Everything else I deny.”

“Your denial is vain.”

“You cannot prove the truth of what you say.”

“So you fall back on that?  But you are mistaken.  I can prove the truth of what I say,” said Ralph firmly.

“How?”

“Do you remember a man named David Marston?”

“He is dead,” said Mr. Stanton, hastily.

“So you have supposed,” said Ralph; “but you were deceived.  He is not dead.  I only encountered him a week since, quite by accident, in my Western home.  He was your confidential clerk, you remember, and fully acquainted with all your business transactions at the time of which I am speaking.  From him I learned how basely I had been deceived, and with what deliberate cruelty you conspired to rob the son of your dead friend.”

“I don’t believe David Marston is alive,” said Mr. Stanton, hoarsely, with a certain terror in his face.  “Indeed, I have proof that he is dead.”

“I know the character of your proof.  A paper was forwarded to you from Australia, whither you had sent him, containing the record of his death.”

“Yes?  What have you to say against this?”

“That the publication was a mistake.  He was dangerously sick, and it was falsely announced that he was dead.  That notice was sent to you, and you believed it to be true.”

“I believe it now,” said Mr. Stanton, doggedly.  “Why should I not?”