With a contemptuous fling of his shoulders, Lenning whirled again as though he would leave. Darrel, his face convulsed with anger, leaped at him and jerked him around.
“You don’t get away from me like this, Jode,” he cried. “There’s been a big mistake, but I think I can understand how it happened. While I was working at a mine in Cripple Creek some one stole my coat. I think it was a hobo. If there was a railroad smash-up, then the hobo was killed and supposed to be me from something found in the stolen coat. I never heard of that wreck, or that I was supposed to have been a victim of it. I don’t know whether I should have set the matter right, even if I had heard of it; but I can correct the mistake now, and you can bet your bottom dollar I’m going to!”
Lenning, held against his will, shook Darrel’s hand roughly from his arm.
“You’ve got your scheme all framed up, I reckon,” said Lenning angrily, “but it won’t work. My half brother’s dead, and you can’t palm yourself off as Ellis Darrel. You’ll find yourself behind the bars if you try it. The colonel won’t stand for any monkey business of that sort.”
“I didn’t come back to get any of the colonel’s money,” went on Darrel. “What I came back for was to prove that I’m not a forger. First, I’ll offer evidence that I’m Ellis Darrel, and then I’ll make the other part of it plain.”
“How’ll you prove that you’re my half brother?” asked Lenning mockingly.
“Who was the best sprinter in the Gold Hill Athletic Club?” returned Darrel. “Who won the two-twenty dash at Los Angeles?”
“Darrel,” answered one of the Gold Hillers.
“Who was the next best sprinter in the club?”
“Jode Lenning.”