"You're wrong, sir," said Matt firmly. "This is a cut-and-dried plot, all the way through. Sercomb has got it in for me, and this rascal, Slocum, is helping him spoil my chances with the Stark-Frisbie Company."
The colonel's face hardened.
"Seeing how you took that note, I was ready to believe this the first time you ever laid eyes on it," said he, "but you are spoiling the good impression by blaming Sercomb."
"In a case like this I have to put the blame where it belongs."
A blow in the face could not have dazed Matt more than that note had done. Now, however, his anger and indignation were coming uppermost. In his case, that always meant that his brain was clearing, and every muscle steadying itself to the tensity of a fore-stay.
"I can't go into your private quarrels, King," said Colonel Plympton, "and even if you are innocent of any dealings with a representative of the Bly-Lambert people, after what has happened I couldn't conscientiously hire you. Besides, you are virtually a stranger; you have never driven in a motor-race—which is vastly different from ordinary driving, and requires experience—and you are rather young to enter the racing field."
"That isn't the point just now, colonel," said Matt. "I am bound to get into that race for the Borden cup, now, in order to show that my intentions are honest—and in order to prove that there is villainous work afoot and that some one is trying to make me the victim of it. I owe this to myself, and I also owe it to Mr. Tomlinson, who recommended me to you. That paper," and he pointed to the document which he had picked up and laid on the colonel's desk, "is not the one I thought I was signing. Slocum juggled it around in the place of the other. I can see that, now that the contemptible plot has come out. Do you know Sercomb's handwriting, colonel?"
"As well as my own."
Matt fished from his pocket the communication which Carl had brought to the hotel.
"Please tell me if that is Sercomb's writing," said he.