Whitley sank back in his chair; then suddenly broke into a harsh laugh.
"You are a crazy fool. Who would believe you? You have no proof."
"Wait a bit," replied Dick, calmly. "There is another chapter to my story. Less than a year after the tragedy, the invalid grandmother died and the young machinist was free to enter upon the great work of his life, the bringing to justice of his brother's murderer, or as he believed, murderers. He could find no clue as to the identity of the obscure driver of the carriage, but with the wealthy American it was different, and he succeeded at last in tracing him to his home in this city. Unfortunately though, the long search had left the young mechanic without means, and he arrived in Boyd City in a penniless and starving condition, the night of the great storm winter before last. You are familiar with the finding of his body by George Udell."
Again Whitley sprang to his feet, and with an awful oath exclaimed,
"How do you know this?"
Dick drew forth a long leather pocket-book, and opening it, took out a package of papers, which he laid on the table between the two revolvers.
"There is the story, written by his own hand, together with the testimony of his grandfather and grandmother, his own sworn statement, and all the evidence he had so carefully gathered."
Whitley sprang forward; but before he could cross the room, both revolvers covered his breast.
"Stop!"
The voice was calm and steady, but full of deadly menace.
Whitley crouched like an animal at bay. The hands that held the weapons never trembled; the gray eyes that looked along the shining barrels never wavered. Slowly he drew back. "Name your price," he said sullenly.
"You have not money enough to buy."