With a muttered oath Hammerswell lifted the bat.
Chester did not shrink in the least. Looking the man straight in the eyes, he hastily said:
“Strike if you dare! Add another murder to your crimes!”
“Another murder?” whispered Hammerswell, aghast.
“Yes, another murder. You see, I know what you’ve done. You see, I know what happened on High Bluff one night near the hour of twelve.”
“Good heavens!” choked the astounded rascal as he nervelessly lowered the bat.
“I know you are haunted by the memory of that crime,” persisted Chester, in a low tone. “Your face tells the story. You fear Luke Grimes. You fear the ghost of Hop Sullivan.”
Three times Hammerswell tried to speak before he could command his voice. Then of a sudden, as if struck by a thought, he panted:
“You—you were in my room last night! The window was open! Some one entered that room! Some one played the ghost! I don’t believe in ghosts. You were there!”
“You’re right,” confessed Chester. “I was there, Hammerswell, and I gave you a fright you’ll not soon forget. How did I dare come there? Why, I had your pistol in my pocket. I wasn’t afraid of you. You missed the weapon, didn’t you? Well, I took it. I knew you were not armed. How did I know so much about what happened on High Bluff? I heard your talk with Luke Grimes. Oh, I’m not fool enough to tell the story without the backing of Grimes, but they’re looking for him, Hammerswell. He’s liable to be captured at any moment. When he’s taken, he’ll blow on you. Now, sir, I hope you enjoy the game.”