There was a triumphant look on Lenning’s face. Darrel, on the other hand, seemed utterly crushed.
“There’s no use, Merriwell,” breathed Darrel, in a broken voice. “The plot is too deep, and you are only injuring yourself by trying to defend me.”
“Kunnel,” spoke up Hawkins, who had been following every angle of Frank’s work with closest attention, “don’t you lay anythin’ up agin’ Merriwell. He’s sized Darrel up wrong, but he’s the clear quill, as I happen to know.”
“I have only the highest respect for Merriwell,” said the colonel. “He tries to stand by his friends to the utmost of his ability—and his ability, let me tell you, is of no mean order. But, my lad, you can accomplish nothing in the face of the facts,” he added, in a kindly voice, to Frank.
“Let us see,” Frank went on. “Pink,” he said to Ballard, “just step up and show the colonel what you have in your pocket.”
Then another surprise was sprung. Ballard, taking a package of bills from his pocket, handed it to the colonel.
“Is that the stolen money, colonel?” he asked.
[CHAPTER XI.]
A PARTIAL VICTORY.
The colonel started back from the package of bills as though from a coiled and striking serpent. A breath of icy air seemed to cross the hot mesa, bringing a weird shiver to more than one of the crowd surrounding the actors in that little drama of check and countercheck. Necks were craned forward, and fascinated interest showed in every face.