up the state
of his feelings, or they would have got the better of him. A while ago
he had said to himself that the fellow was despicable enough to
implicate his own parents if it were necessary to save his skin; but
even then he had only half believed it; now, however, he knew, and a
fierce indignation bit into the very soul of him.

The worm had suddenly developed into a viper.

He went on groping for the dropped cigar. He might have found it at once
had he chosen to do so, but he did not. It needed a moment or two to
whip his savage desires into subjugation, to get himself well in hand
again that he might face this unnatural son without giving way to the
temptation to thrash him; and all the while his head was whirling with
the crushing recollections that were crowding into it.

If it were worth his while--to save his own skin, to divert suspicion
from himself---- Well, was it not worth his while now? The chase was
narrowing, and perhaps he knew it--one could not be certain what such a
man _would_ find means of discovering. Perhaps he knew of the unearthing
of the buried clothing. Perhaps he knew that there was proof the
murderer had been traced to Wuthering Grange, and knowing, realized the
necessity for diverting suspicion from himself, if he were guilty? But,
guilty or innocent, principal or accessory, this one thing was certain:
last night a murder had been committed; last night a dead man had been
spiked to the wall in true Apache fashion; and this Mr. Harry Raynor,
who was casting slurs upon his own father, was hand and glove with the
Apache queen!

CHAPTER TWENTY

"HOW SHARPER THAN A SERPENT'S TOOTH"

Cleek found his cigar at last, and rose with it in his hand, leaving
young Barch to finish his story in his own inimitable way.

"Yes," he continued, "what I call a regular facer for me. I was swindled
into going away by a forged letter, which I swear he wrote himself.
Recollect, don't you, that when you came to meet me at the ruin, I told
you I'd suddenly been called away? Well, so I had. While I was waiting
there at the ruin for you to get shot of that muff Geoff Clavering and
come to join me, up walks the pater and hands me a letter--a typewritten
letter, mark you--with word that a messenger had just brought it. Now
listen to this closely, Barch! Last January some fool of an editor
suggested to my pater that he should write a series of articles upon the
proper cultivation of hot-house fruits fo