“Fentress, I want the boy,” he said quietly.
“What boy?”
“My grandson.”
“You are mad! What do I know of him—or you?” Fentress was gaining courage from the sound of his own voice.
“You know who he is and where he is. Your business relations with General Ware have put you on the track of the Quintard lands in this state. You intend to use the boy to gather them in.”
“You're mad!” repeated Fentress.
“Unless you bring him to me inside of twenty-four hours I'll smash you!” roared the judge. “Your name isn't Fentress, it's Gatewood; you've stolen the name of Fentress, just as you have stolen other things. What's come of Turberville's wife and child? What's come of Turberville's money? Damn your soul! I want my grandson! I'll pull you down and leave you stripped and bare! I'll tell the world the false friend you've been—the thief you are! I'll strip you and turn you out of these doors as naked as when you entered the world!” The judge seemed to tower above Fentress, the man had shot up out of his deep debasement. “Choose! Choose!” he thundered, his shaggy brows bent in a menacing frown.
“I know nothing about the boy,” said Fentress slowly.
“By God, you lie!” stormed the judge.
“I know nothing about the boy,” and Fentress took a step toward the door.