“I’ll prove it!” cried Mike, following him across the room and letting him out. “You’ll be convinced sooner than you think. Good night, Merriwell.”
When Dick was gone Lynch turned back to his study table, produced a paper pad, seized a pen, and prepared to write.
Across the top of the first page he wrote these words: “Voluntary Statement of M. J. Lynch, Student at Yale, Class of Umpty-ten.” This was followed by the date.
At this point Lynch paused, with uplifted pen, and a queer, crafty look flitted across his face.
“I shall ask Merriwell to destroy this paper when he is satisfied that I am sincere in my repentance. But what if he forgets to destroy it? What if it falls into other hands, and is read by some one for whose eyes it is not intended? I must be cautious. I must look out for that.”
Pulling the sheet from the pad, he tore it up and flung the pieces into his waste basket. Then he arose, crossed the room, and opened a drawer of his dresser, from which he took a very small bottle of ink. Returning to the table, he sat down, selected a fresh, clean pen, and prepared to use the small bottle of ink. For fully thirty minutes Lynch wrote.
“There,” he said at last, “there’s a full confession of my connection with the running down of Buckhart’s boat, and of my attempt to destroy Merriwell’s ghost with silver bullets. Now, what I need is a witness for my signature.”
The witness appeared directly, for Bern Wolfe entered without pausing to rap.
“Thought I’d come round to find out how you are, Mike,” said Wolfe. “By George, you got a bump! What the dickens were you doing, anyhow? You left us on the bleachers, and went hustling away, after announcing that you couldn’t stay there any longer, and had decided to leave the field. How’d you happen to get in there where you could be hit by that ball?”
“Never mind that,” said Lynch. “You’re just the fellow I want to use. I have a little document here that I’m about to sign. I want you to attach your name as witness.”