“What’s this?” he almost forgot his caution.
“Well, what is it?”
“‘I—Henry Morgan—do confess,’” he began, then flung aside the paper and opened the last one feverishly.
Meanwhile Mort strained his eyes at the first, but Henry, snatching the lamp and using it, snarled.
“It’s got all about you being a bandit and shooting the gringoes—“(Americans)—“and lots more, Henry.”
“Well, this confession is about you and how you stole from me and your pals and hid the gold dust and took the little girl.”
“Well—what of it? Who put them there?”
“We did!” snapped a sharp voice.
“And you might as well sign the confessions!” said another.
Whirling, dazzled by two vivid white beams cast on them from large flashlamps protruding through the window, the two, caught red-handed, blinked and stammered in amazement.