"Mapleson," he said thickly, "do you know what you've done?"
The little man gaped. He cringed, starting as if he had been struck. Then from Mr. Mapleson's face, too, the last vestige of color sped swiftly.
"I?" he gasped.
Varick grimly nodded.
"Yes, you, Mapleson! It was you, wasn't it, that had those letters, the ones in that dead woman's trunk? It was you, too, wasn't it, that gave the lawyers the other papers—their proofs?" His voice rasping, he stared at the little man fixedly. "A fine mess, man, you've made of it!"
Both hands at his mouth, Mr. Mapleson shrank back, quivering.
"What do you mean?" he shrilled, and Varick shrugged his shoulders disgustedly.
"Just what I say!" he returned. "You don't know, do you, it was that man, that scoundrel, who ruined my father? You don't know, do you, he was the one who trimmed him in Wall Street? And now you've given her to him!"
Mr. Mapleson stared at him appalled.