"Yes; he's crazy," said Hounshell, trying to assume the air of a composed and meritorious person placed at a disadvantage.
"You must have been yourself," the Californian vehemently declared, "when you took that legacy to pay to Mrs. Scofield, and then stole it because she died and no one knew about it. The mill belongs to Scofield, I say, and I can prove it in a little time."
"You've got no evidence," asserted Hounshell, very pale and a trifle wolfish.
"Evidence! I've got you, and you're chock full of it. I believe I could shake it right out of you if I tried."
Piper glared at him, and then, without releasing his hold, made a dive with one hand at his captive's breast.
"It's gone," said Hounshell, huskily. "I've burned it."
"Burned what?"
"The paper," Hounshell muttered; "your memo—"
"Oh, you had it, then! You've convicted yourself by that, my fine scamp."
"I give up," said the wretched criminal. "Let's go. Take me away—the mill! Bring Scofield. I give up."