“Yes, but not in the way it is recorded in the county clerk's office. They say that the record shows that there was an interpolation in the paper he left with you--which was a forgery. Briefly, Harcourt, you are accused of that. More,--it is intimated that when he fell into the creek that night, and escaped on a raft that was floating past, that he had been first stunned by a blow from some one interested in getting rid of him.” He paused and glanced out of the window. “Is that all?” asked Harcourt in a perfectly quiet, steady, voice. “All!” replied Grant, struck with the change in his companion's manner, and turning his eyes upon him quickly. The change indeed was marked and significant. Whether from relief at knowing the worst, or whether he was experiencing the same reaction from the utter falsity of this last accusation that he had felt when Grant had unintentionally wronged him in his previous recollection, certain it is that some unknown reserve of strength in his own nature, of which he knew nothing before, suddenly came to his aid in this extremity. It invested him with an uncouth dignity that for the first time excited Grant's respect. “I beg your pardon, Grant, for the hasty way I spoke to you a moment ago, for I thank you, and appreciate thoroughly and sincerely what you have done. You are right; it is a matter for fighting and not fussing over. But I must have a head to hit. Whose is it?” “The man who holds himself legally responsible is Fletcher,--the proprietor of the 'Clarion,' and a man of property.” “The 'Clarion'? That is the paper which began the attack?” said Harcourt. “Yes, and it is only fair to tell you here that your son threw up his place on it in consequence of its attack upon you.”