“Miss Truman,” he said, “I congratulate you. You have indeed found the treasure, and the Court rules that the property is yours.”
Mother was laughing convulsively, with the tears streaming down her face; Dick’s arms were about my neck; Tom had both my hands and was shaking them wildly. There was such a mist before my eyes that I could scarcely see.
“Oh, Biffkins!” cried my brother. “Oh, Biffkins, what a trump you are!”
I can’t tell clearly what happened just then, we were all so moved and so excited. I remember hearing what seemed to be a scuffle at the door, followed by a muttered oath and a sharp command, and I looked around to see two strangers standing in the doorway, and one of them had a pistol pointed straight at Silas Tunstall, who was staring at it, his hands above his head.
We all of us stood, for an instant, gaping in amazement at this strange spectacle.
“What’s all this?” demanded Mr. Tunstall, angrily. “Turn that there gun another way, young feller.”
The “young feller,” a well-built, clean-shaven man of middle age, laughed derisively.
“Oh, come, Jim,” he said; “it won’t do,” and reaching forward with his disengaged hand, he deliberately plucked out by the roots a tuft of Mr. Tunstall’s beard. At least, I thought for a moment it was by the roots—then I saw that there weren’t any roots, but that the beard was a false one, cunningly glued on. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he added, glancing around at us, “permit me to introduce to you Mr. James Bright, the cleverest confidence man in the United States.”
The prisoner’s face relaxed; in fact he was actually smiling.