“You ain't? You AIN'T! Why not?”
“'Cause he's gone where you can't git at him. He died jest afore I left the house.”
Mr. Saunders' brandished fist fell heavily on the arm of his chair. His face turned white in patches, and then flamed red again.
“Died!” he gasped.
“Died.”
“You—you're a liar!”
“No, I ain't. John Baxter's dead. He was a chum of mine—you're right there—and if I'd known a sneak like you was after him I'd have been here long afore this. Why, you—”
The Captain's voice shook, but he restrained himself and went on.
“Now, you see where you stand, don't you? Long's John lived you had the proof to convict him; I'll own up to that much. I hid the coat; I smashed the bottle. The hat I didn't know 'bout. I might have told you at fust that all that didn't amount to anything, but I thought I'd wait and let you tell me what more I wanted to know. John Baxter's gone, poor feller, and all your proof ain't worth a cent. Not one red cent. Understand?”
It was quite evident that Mr. Saunders did understand, for his countenance showed it. But the bluster was not out of him yet.