"From Sibyl Osborne."
"Sibyl Osborne?"
"She who lies before you. If that is not YOUR portrait, and if you are not the man who murdered Captain Osborne and ruined his daughter, then I am out of my senses."
With the words Dyke Darrel presented a cocked revolver at the heart of the cool, smiling villain before him.
The smile left the New Yorker's face, and a serious expression followed it.
"What? You draw a pistol on me, Dyke Darrel? I am surprised," cried Mr. Elliston in an injured tone. "I did not imagine that you could lose confidence in me, let what would happen. Can it be that our friendship was but a brittle cord, after all?"
"I cannot remain friendly when my confidence has been betrayed."
"And you deem me a most hardened scoundrel? Of course you will give me a hearing. You are an upholder of law, and do not approve of lynching. Here, put on the handcuffs, Dyke, and take me to prison. You will be sorry for this some time, but now that circumstances are against me your friendship falls to the ground. I did not expect such treatment. However, I can live through it; but I shall never feel toward you as I have in times past. Put on the irons, Dyke. Why do you hesitate?"
"There is a chance for a mistake, of course," said the detective,
"I am glad you admit that much."