"I don't know what you are talking about," said the merchant, trying to speak firmly.
"I beg your pardon, but you do. I call for the money you obtained for the securities which you took from the dead body of Dr. Baker, who died in your house of heart disease—a sum which you appropriated to your own use, leaving your sister and your sister's son poor and dependent."
"You must be crazy, sir. Where is the proof of your strange and unfounded charge?"
"I can produce the broker who sold these securities for you in the year 18—."
"It is easy to say this. May I know the name of this broker?" asked the merchant, making a feeble attempt to deny the charge.
"His name is John Goldsmith, and his office is No. —— Wall street," answered Novarro, promptly.
Nicholas Walton leaned back in his chair and seemed ready to faint, but uttered no word.
"Well, sir, your answer?"
"Can't we—compromise—this—thing?" asked Walton, feebly.