There was a very dangerous light in the eyes of Mark Merrill now, and there followed his command a chorus of voices, saying:
“Yes, speak!”
But Barney Breslin uttered no word, and his face grew livid as his eyes roved over to where Scott Clemmons stood.
He met only a cold stare from the man who had been his friend, and placing his hand to his head in a dazed sort of way, he walked slowly out of the gymnasium.
“He shall speak!” cried Mark, starting after him, but a dozen hands held him back, while Byrd Bascomb said:
“No need of it, Merrill; for he is the thief.”
“And worse, he well-nigh ruined you, Merrill,” added Herbert Nazro.
“Forgive me, Merrill, but he accused you to me, and it was his plot to have you walk on your hands that the money might roll out of your pocket,” and Scott Clemmons held out his hand.
But sharp and decisive came the response:
“No, Clemmons, I will not take your hand, for you are no more my friend than Breslin has been—I pity him, but despise you,” and Mark walked away with Dillingham, Nazro and Byrd Bascomb.