“Great heavens! Whence do you come?” demanded Simpson, hoarsely.
“I come from California, where for eight years and more I lived bereft of reason in consequence of your cruel assault.”
“You need not tell me that,” said Simpson, with a bold inspiration. “Your story is evidently the tale of a crazy man, and will not be believed. I am glad you are alive, but your attempt to levy blackmail will not succeed,” and he sat down with a smile of gratified malice.
“If such is the case and my father’s story is untrue, why did you give five hundred dollars to Darius Darke to keep your secret, about a year ago?”
This was another surprise. How could Tom know this? Certainly not from the man who had received the money, for he had been burned in the old barn.
“Who told you this cock-and-bull story?” demanded Mr. Simpson, defiantly. “It is clearly a bold invention of yours.”
Another door opened, and John Simpson stared aghast at the man whom he had supposed to have been burned alive in the conflagration.
“It is no invention, John Simpson,” said the new-comer.
“Where do you come from?” asked Simpson, with staring eyes and parched lips.
“From Europe. You were very cunning, John Simpson, in your attempt, by destroying my life, to silence forever the tongue of one who might have appeared against you, but Providence did not suffer you to succeed. I did not sleep in the old barn; I passed the night in your stable, which I found more comfortable.”