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The Mystery of the Four Fingers by Fred M. (Frederick Merrick) White
page 119 of 278 (42%)

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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