And then he went on to tell the story of his night’s experience, just as Bob Howard had told it to George that morning.
He did not mention Benson’s name; he did not say that the voices sounded familiar to him; nor did he so much as hint at his suspicions; but, nevertheless, his narrative produced a startling effect.
Benson’s hand trembled so violently that he could hardly retain his hold upon the stick he was trying to cut with his knife, while the expression of indifference on Wallace’s face and Forbes’ gave place to a look of genuine alarm.
“They are the guilty ones, as sure as I am a foot high,” said Bob Howard to himself; “but, I declare, I can hardly bring myself to believe it. Why should they want to steal the old man’s money, when their fathers are so rich and give them all they want to spend?”
“What’s the matter, Bob?” inquired the officer—for the boy, all unconscious of what he was doing, had brought both his hands down upon his knees with a ringing slap. “Do you wish to add anything to what Dick has told us?”
“No, sir; he has told you everything—I mean—that is to say—pretty nearly everything that happened last night.”
“Suppose you tell what he left out?”
“Dick is a better talker than I am, and he will do it himself when the time comes.”
“Well, Mr. Stebbins,” said the sheriff, “our young friend has told a straightforward story, hasn’t he?”
“Oh, ’most anybody could tell a smooth tale, if he thought he could keep himself out of the penitentiary by doing it,” replied the old man, who had made several persistent but unsuccessful attempts to interrupt the boy while he was speaking. “There hain’t a word of truth in what he said, except about sleepin’ in my barn.”