“So you have supposed,” said Ralph; “but you were deceived. He is not dead. I only encountered him a week since, quite by accident, in my Western home. He was your confidential clerk, you remember, and fully acquainted with all your business transactions at the time of which I am speaking. From him I learned how basely I had been deceived, and with what deliberate cruelty you conspired to rob the son of your dead friend.”
“I don't believe David Marston is alive,” said Mr. Stanton, hoarsely, with a certain terror in his face. “Indeed, I have proof that he is dead.”
“I know the character of your proof. A paper was forwarded to you from Australia, whither you had sent him, containing the record of his death.”
“Yes? What have you to say against this?”
“That the publication was a mistake. He was dangerously sick, and it was falsely announced that he was dead. That notice was sent to you, and you believed it to be true.”
“I believe it now,” said Mr. Stanton, doggedly. “Why should I not?”
“If you wish to be convinced, proof is at hand. Wait a moment.”
Ralph Pendleton rose from his seat and left the counting-room. Two minutes had not passed when he returned with an elderly man, thin of face and wasted in figure, looking twenty years older than Mr. Stanton, though really of about the same age.
“This is David Marston,” said Ralph—“the living proof that I have told you the truth.”
Mr. Stanton gazed at him wildly, for to him it was as the face of one risen from the dead.