“Our mutual friend has struck again, and again he has failed!”
The elder Merriwell could hardly credit the words. He recalled the entrance into the room of “Fisher Stokes,” the pretended stock-broker. The man who crouched and whined in the chair wore the same clothing, yet the mustache and imperial and the jaunty business air were gone. What had occurred after the man’s entrance and their talk of a few moments Charles Merriwell could not remember. The interval was now a blank to him.
Yet, with eyes enlightened by Frank’s words, he perceived that this was really “Fisher Stokes,” minus the mustache and imperial, which he now saw on the floor; and Frank had assured him that the man was his bitter and deadly enemy, Dion Santenel.
Charles Merriwell’s brain whirled when he tried to comprehend this transition and the peril he had been in. A sense of terror filled him, giving to his face, under its crown of white hair, a pitiful look.
“It must be as you say!” he managed to articulate.
Santenel was racking his clever brain for something that would stand him in stead now, and trying at the same time to still the trembling of his limbs and subdue the fear that filled him.
“I am Santenel,” he gaspingly confessed. “But there is a great mistake.”
He saw the “confession” which he had forced Charles Merriwell to write, lying, as he had meant to leave it, on the marble-topped table. He put out his hand, hoping he might be able to secure it unobserved.
Frank Merriwell saw the movement, and, advancing to the table, secured the writing, his face darkening as he read it over, for it revealed in all its details Santenel’s cruel plan against his father. Nevertheless, Frank put it quietly in his pocket. He had regained control of himself.
Santenel sat with fear-filled face and blue lips, staring at him.