The deaf mute made an emphatic gesture of assent, and his black eyes flashed.
Merriwell continued to eye the other steadily.
“I did not do it,” he said quietly.
A look of scornful disbelief lit up Hanlon’s sombre eyes.
“Listen to me,” said Dick slowly, “and I will tell you what happened this morning. My friends and I were driving to the club from Wilton. At the curve we saw something in the road, and stopped. When I got out I found that it was a little girl, unconscious and bleeding from a great gash in her forehead. I carried her into the farmhouse and found that she belonged there. She was not dead at the time, but badly hurt, and the doctor was sent for at once——”
He stopped abruptly. The dumb youth was searching frantically in his pocket for something; his mouth was trembling and his eyes filled with a wild eagerness.
Dick stepped over to a small desk and took out a sheet of paper, marked with the club letterhead, which he handed to Hanlon.
“Is that what you want?” he asked quietly.
The fellow snatched it from him and, turning to the dressing table, rested it on the polished surface while he scrawled a brief sentence. Then he thrust the paper into Dick’s hands.
“Not killed—is that true?”