“One thing more,” said Mr. Stark. “The last message of Colonel Conrad, the letter he wrote to lawyer Tibbs, one end of which is torn off, is in your possession. We want it.”
“How,” said Haywood, in a daze of bewilderment, “do you know this?”
“We have the dying word of your man Snags,” replied Mr. Stark.
“Well,” said Haywood, rallying suddenly, “I pronounce it an infernal lie! If you want that paper, you must find it the best way you can.”
“Very well,” said Stark, coolly. “If you stick to that we will proceed at once. Shall we open your desk and overhaul your private papers? You have only to say the word.”
“No, no. I’ll give it to you.” Haywood was humble again. “Snags gave it to me, but I don’t see why he thought I wanted it. There’s nothing of it. It has no meaning. I wish I had burned it.”
He went to his desk, opened a private drawer, and produced the letter. Mr. Stark took it and placed it in his pocket.
“That is all at present, I believe,” said Mr. Stark. “Officer, take charge of your man.”
There was a sensation of the liveliest description in Dalton that day. Geoffrey Haywood’s store was closed, and its proprietor was in the hands of the officers of the law. The news of the arrest and the nature of the offense soon got noised about, and afforded a subject for wondering discussion by the entire community.