I _thought that it was you_! The
man was dressed as you were dressed, his grey handkerchief even was like
yours. Now I know it was a man named Ben Broderick who robbed me, and
that he wanted me to think that it was you.
"Can't you see the whole scheme? Broderick and the men who are with him,
have been committing these crimes. And pretty soon, in a few days, in
five days I think, they will be ready to make the evidence show that you
are the man who has done it all."
There was more; there were several sheets of paper, closely written.
Thornton saw the names of Henry Pollard, of Cole Dalton. But he read no
further. In one instant the mind which had been so intent upon these
things a girl's writing was telling him forgot Winifred Waverly, Henry
Pollard, Broderick--everything except that which was happening at his
side.
For, while he read, there had been the sharp crack of a revolver, he saw
the spit of angry reddish flame almost at his side, and as he saw he
dropped to his knee, Winifred's note in his left hand, his right
flashing to his own revolver. For his first thought was that a man had
crept up behind him, that it was Pollard, that he was shooting at him.
But almost with the flash and the report of the gun he knew that this
man was not shooting at him.
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