“You’re a very good actor, young man,––mighty clever,––but it’s no go. Now you’ll walk along with us if you please,” said Mr. Kellar.
“But I tell you I don’t please. It’s a mistake. I am Peter Craigmile, Jr., himself, alive.”
“Well, if you are, you’ll have a chance to prove it, but evidence is against you. If you are he, why do you come back under an assumed name during your father’s absence? A little hitch there you did not take into consideration.”
“I had my reasons––good ones––I––came back to confess to the––un––un––witting––killing of my cousin, Richard.” He turned from one to the other, panting as if he had been running a race, and threw out his words impetuously. “I tell you I came here for the very purpose of giving myself up––but you have the wrong man.”
By this time a crowd had collected, and the servants were running from their work all over the hotel, while the proprietor stood aloof with staring eyes.
“Here, Mr. Decker, you remember me––Elder Craigmile’s son? Some of you must remember me.”
But the proprietor only wagged his head. He would not be drawn into the thing. “I have no means of knowing who you are––no more than Adam. The name you wrote in my book was Harry King.”
“I tell you I had my reasons. I meant to wait here until the Elder’s––my father’s return and––”
“And in the meantime we’ll put you in a quiet little apartment, very private, where you can wait, while we look into things a bit.”