The door opened, and the person outside entered the room. In an instant Brooks had shut the door and locked it behind him. The man turned fiercely, but was faced by Brooks quietly, with one finger calmly hooked in his waistcoat pocket. The man slightly recoiled from him—not as much from fear as from some vague stupefaction. “What's that for? What's your little game?” he said half contemptuously.
“No game at all,” returned Brooks coolly. “You came here to sell a secret. I don't propose to have it given away first to any listener.”
“YOU don't—who are YOU?”
“That's a queer question to ask of the man you are trying to personate—but I don't wonder! You're doing it d——d badly.”
“Personate—YOU?” said the stranger, with staring eyes.
“Yes, ME,” said Brooks quietly. “I am the only man who escaped from the robbery that night at Heavy Tree Hill and who went home by the Overland Coach.”
The stranger stared, but recovered himself with a coarse laugh. “Oh, well! we're on the same lay, it appears! Both after the widow—afore we show up her husband.”
“Not exactly,” said Brooks, with his eyes fixed intently on the stranger. “You are here to denounce a highwayman who is DEAD and escaped justice. I am here to denounce one who is LIVING!—Stop! drop your hand; it's no use. You thought you had to deal only with a woman to-night, and your revolver isn't quite handy enough. There! down!—down! So! That'll do.”
“You can't prove it,” said the man hoarsely.
“Fool! In your story to that woman you have given yourself away. There were but two travelers attacked by the highwaymen. One was killed—I am the other. Where do YOU come in? What witness can you be—except as the highwayman that you are? Who is left to identify Wade but—his accomplice!”