“Tremble!” exclaimed Leon, scornfully.
“Yes,” repeated Wiggins. “Your father—”
“Pooh!” said Leon.
“When Dalton died,” continued Wiggins, “he left his papers. Among them was a letter of which he himself told me. If he had produced that letter on his trial, he would have escaped, and the guilty man would have been punished. The letter was written by the real forger. It inclosed the forged check to Dalton, asking him to draw the money and pay certain pressing debts. The writer of that letter was your own father—Lionel Dudleigh!”
“It's a lie!” cried Leon, starting up, with terrible excitement in his face—an excitement, too, which was mingled with unspeakable dread.
“It's true,” said Wiggins, calmly, “and the letter can be proved.”
“It can not.”
“It can, and by the best of testimony.”
“I don't believe it.”
“Perhaps not; but there is something more. With the murder trial you are no doubt familiar. In fact, I take it for granted that you are familiar with Dalton's case in all its bearings,” added Wiggins, in a tone of deep meaning. “In that murder trial, then, you are aware that a Maltese cross was found on the scene of murder, and created much excitement. You know what part it had in the trial. I now inform you that I have proof which can show beyond a doubt that this Maltese cross was the property of your father—Lionel Dudleigh.”