Ford stared at him dumfounded. He started to speak, but Enoch cut him short in a towering rage.
“You’ve swindled my friend, Miss Ann Moulton, as well,” he cried. “You took seven thousand five hundred dollars from her in payment for your worthless stock—from a helpless lady—half she owned in the world, you despicable hound—from a helpless woman.” Ford reddened. “Half, I say—from the support of a sister who is ill—a poor, pitiful wreck of a woman dying of consumption.”
“Oh! Now see here, Crane—go slow—let me explain.”
“Systematically swindled her, robbed her, talked her into it—persuaded her until she gave you her check. Your kind stop at nothing.” His voice rang out over the half-open transom and down the corridor. Ford sat gripping his chair.
“I tell you, Miss Moulton ain’t lost a penny of her money,” he stammered. “What I done for her I done out of neighborly kindness.”
“Stop, sir! Don’t lie to me. Answer me one question. How much of Miss Moulton’s money have you got left?”
Ford glowered at him in silence.
“Answer me! How much have you got left? I intend to get at the bottom of this damnable business. What you’ve got left of Miss Moulton’s money, you’ll return to her.”
“Why, there ain’t a penny of it missin’,” declared Ford blandly, paling visibly.
“You call a credit in your bank of five thousand two hundred and some odd dollars, nothing missing? Where’s the rest?”