“There!” shouted Billson, “what have you got to say for yourself now? And what kind of apology are you going to make to me and to this insulted house for the imposture which you have attempted to play here?”
“No apologies are due, sir; and as for the rest of it, I publicly charge you with pilfering my note from Mr. Burgess and substituting a copy of it signed with your own name. There is no other way by which you could have gotten hold of the test-remark; I alone, of living men, possessed the secret of its wording.”
There was likely to be a scandalous state of things if this went on; everybody noticed with distress that the shorthand scribes were scribbling like mad; many people were crying “Chair, chair! Order! order!” Burgess rapped with his gavel, and said:
“Let us not forget the proprieties due. There has evidently been a mistake somewhere, but surely that is all. If Mr. Wilson gave me an envelope—and I remember now that he did—I still have it.”
He took one out of his pocket, opened it, glanced at it, looked surprised and worried, and stood silent a few moments. Then he waved his hand in a wandering and mechanical way, and made an effort or two to say something, then gave it up, despondently. Several voices cried out:
“Read it! read it! What is it?”
So he began, in a dazed and sleep-walker fashion:
“‘The remark which I made to the unhappy stranger was this: “You are far from being a bad man. (The house gazed at him marvelling.) Go, and reform.’” (Murmurs: “Amazing! what can this mean?”) “This one,” said the Chair, “is signed Thurlow G. Wilson.”
“There!” cried Wilson, “I reckon that settles it! I knew perfectly well my note was purloined.”
“Purloined!” retorted Billson. “I’ll let you know that neither you nor any man of your kidney must venture to—”