“Whom you hired to put me out of the way.”
“What do you mean?” asked Mr. McCracken hoarsely,
“I have in my possession a letter which you wrote to him, from which it will be easy to prove your attempted crime and the motive.”
“There is no such letter. I never wrote one of that tenor.”
“It is in your handwriting.”
“Show it to me, then.”
“I can’t. It is in the hands of my lawyer.”
“You have dared to put it into the hands of a lawyer?”
“I felt that it was my best course.”
Cornelius McCracken’s countenance worked convulsively. He was beginning to be afraid of his ward.