“There is only one weak point in your case,” said the Judge, and his eyes gleamed with satisfaction, which he concealed by bowing his head. “It is that since these records show no sale of its property by the Midland Company, the Midland Company can come forward and re-establish its title.”
Corrigan laughed and flipped a legal-looking paper in front of the Judge. The latter opened it and read, showing eagerness. He laid it down after reading, his hands trembling.
“It shows that the Midland Company—James Marchmont, president—transferred to Jefferson Corrigan, on a date prior to these other transactions, one-hundred thousand acres of land here—the Midland Company’s entire holdings. Why, man, it is forgery!”
“No,” said Corrigan quietly. “James Marchmont is alive. He signed his name right where it is. He’ll confirm it, too, for he happens to be in something of the fix that you are in. Therefore, there being no records of any sales on your books—as revised, of course—” he laughed; “Jeff Corrigan is the legal possessor of one-hundred thousand acres of land right in the heart of what is going to be the boom section of the West!” He chuckled, lit a cigar, leaned back in his chair and looked at the Judge. “All you have to do now is to enter that transaction on your records.”
“You don’t expect the present owners to yield their titles without a fight, do you?” asked the Judge. He spoke breathlessly.
Corrigan grunted. “Sure; they’ll fight. But they’ll lose. I’ve got them. I’ve got the power—the courts—the law, behind me. I’ve got them, and I’ll squeeze them. It means a mint of money, man. It will make you. It’s the biggest thing that any man ever attempted to pull off in this country!”
“Yes, it’s big,” groaned the Judge; “it’s stupendous! It’s frightful! Why, man, if anything goes wrong, it would mean—” He paused and shivered.
Corrigan smiled contemptuously. “Where’s the original record?” he asked.
“I destroyed it,” said the Judge. He did not look at Corrigan. “How?” demanded the latter.
“Burned it.”