He laid down the lists, more perplexed than ever. He was sure he had not made the alterations himself, and he could not understand why any one else should have made them,—especially why they should have been made in his favor. Glancing around again on the occupants of the room, he noticed that Colonel Silsbee and Finkelton were looking steadfastly at him, but that Brede sat with his eyes turned away.
In the next moment the explanation was suggested to Brightly’s mind. He knew that Brede had handled the reports that day; he knew that Brede would go any length to injure him. The plot, its conception, its object, its fulfilment, were as plain to him now as sunlight.
A sudden hatred flared up in his heart against the author of so cowardly a scheme,—such a hatred as impels the hand of the assassin. Hot words came to his lips; an indignant denial was on his tongue, a passionate charging of malice and crime against his implacable enemy.
But in the midst of his wrath he took counsel of his judgment, and checked the utterance. What would Brede care for his anger or his arraignment? He would have anticipated that. He would only curl his lips more scornfully than usual, and invite proof of the accusation. That would not do.
Suddenly a new thought flashed into Brightly’s mind. It was the conception of a scheme completely to checkmate his enemy,—a scheme so bold and novel and unprincipled that it swept conscience like a feather before it, and impetuously floated its lie to the lad’s lips.
For one moment he hesitated; then he placed his finger on the altered list, and said: [“These figures are correct. That is my true standing.”]
[“These figures are correct. That is my true standing.”]
Brede turned in his chair and started to his feet, gazing upon the speaker incredulously. The lie was so unexpected, so deliberate, so audacious, that it staggered him.