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Page 69
Following Virginia's barely audible words there was a long silence.
Her eyes, dark with the trouble in them, rested upon Norton's face and
saw the frown go from his brows while slowly the red seeped into his
bronzed cheeks. For the first time in her life she saw him staggered
by the shock of surprise, held hesitant and uncertain. For a little
there was never a movement of his rigid muscles; one hand rested upon
the butt of his revolver, the other was closed upon the stack of gold
pieces. When at last he found his tongue it was to accuse her.
"You trapped me," he said bitterly.
"With golden bait," she admitted, her voice oddly spiritless. "Yes."
"Well," he challenged, "what are you going to do about it?"
"Do? I don't know!"
Again they grew silent, studying each other intently. Norton, his
poise coming back to him as the unusual color receded from his face,
smiled at her with an affectation of his old manner. Suddenly he
stepped back to her table, noiselessly set down the coins, eased
himself into a chair.
"You wished to thresh things out? I am ready. And in case we should
be interrupted, you know, I have called on you in your official
capacity. We'll say that I am troubled by the old wound in the head;
that will do as well as anything, won't it?"
"It was you who robbed the bank at Pozo!" she cried softly, leaning
toward him, the look in her eyes one of dread now. "And the mine
superintendent at Las Palmas? And I don't know how many other people.
It was you!"
She had startled him in the beginning; she knew she would not draw
another sign of surprise from him. He had himself under control, and
long years of severe training made that control complete. He merely
looked interested under her sweeping accusation.
"You must have a reason for a charge like that," he remarked evenly.
"Do you deny it?"
"I deny nothing, I affirm nothing right now. I say that you must have
a reason for what you state."
"You put the incriminating evidence in del Rio's trunk," she ran on
hurriedly. "The canvas bags of gold. Didn't you?"
"Reason?" he insisted equably.
"You took Caleb Patten's fountain pen! I saw you."
He lifted his brows at her. Then he laughed softly.
"In the first place," he replied thoughtfully, "I really believe that
he is not Caleb at all but Charles Patten. We'll talk of that later,
however. In the second place isn't it rather humorous to wind up by
accusing a man with the theft of a fountain pen after your other
charges?"
"Answer one question," she urged earnestly. "Please. It is only a
small matter. Give me your word of honor that you will answer it
truthfully."
He was very grave as he sat for a moment, head down, twirling his big
hat in slow fingers. Then he smiled again as he looked up.
"Either truthfully or not at all," he promised her. "My word of honor."
She was plainly excited as she set him her question, seeming at once
eager and afraid to have his response.
"I saw you take Patten's fountain pen and a scrap of note-paper from
the table by your bed when you were hurt--the first time I called to
see how you were doing. I thought that perhaps there was something of
importance written on the paper, that, if nothing else, you wanted a
bit of Patten's handwriting to use in your proof that he was not the
man he pretended to be. You slipped both pen and paper under your
pillow. Tell me just this: Was that paper of any importance whatever,
of any interest even, to you?"
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