“It was no accident. You can’t patch it up that way—or in any—I see. You have practiced his handwriting. You have done this before.”
Stephen gathered himself together feebly. “Of what do you accuse me?” he fumbled.
“Tell me the truth—I must know the truth.”
Then Stephen added blunder to blunder. He pointed to the ledger. “I know nothing of it—nothing.”
“You’re lying.”
“Uncle Dick!”
“You are lying, Stephen Pryde—it’s as plain on your face as the truth was on Hugh’s—and, God forgive me, I wouldn’t believe him.”
“I didn’t do it, I tell you!” Stephen was blustering fiercely now.
“You had access to that ledger as well as Hugh. You can’t deny the damnable evidence of this you’ve just written before my eyes. Oh! how blind I’ve been—blind—blind! Stephen,” he panted in his fury, “unless you tell me the truth now, by the mother that bore you, I’ll show you no mercy—none.”
For a space Stephen stared at him, fascinated—caught. All at once his courage quite went, and he sagged down in his chair, crumpled and beaten. “I did it,” he said hoarsely. “I had to.”