The Mystery of the Four Fingers by Fred M. (Frederick Merrick) White
page 119 of 278 (42%)
page 119 of 278 (42%)
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The jeer went home to Fenwick, his yellow face flushed, and he half rose from his chair with a threatening gesture. "Oh, you can strike me," the cripple said. "I am practically helpless as far as my lower limbs are concerned, and it would be just the sort of cowardly act that would gratify a dirty little soul like yours. It hurts me to sit here, helpless and useless, knowing that you are the cause of all my misfortunes; knowing that, but for you, I should be as straight and strong as the best of them. And yet you are not safe--you are going to pay the penalty of your crime. Have you had the first of your warnings yet?" Fenwick started in his seat; in the looking-glass the watchers could see how ghastly his face had grown. "I don't know what you mean," he muttered. "Liar!" the cripple cried. "Paltry liar! Why, you are shaking from head to foot now--your face is like that of a man who stands in the shadow of the gallows." "I repeat, I don't know what you mean," Fenwick said. "Oh, yes, you do. When your accomplice Van Fort foully murdered my father, you thought that the two of you would have the mine to yourselves; you thought you would work it alone as my father did, and send your ill-gotten gains back to England. That is how the murdered man accomplished it, that is how he made his fortune--and you were going to do the same thing, both of you. When you had made all your arrangements |
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