“Do you remember what day this is? The eleventh of October.” He paused for a reply. Thurston’s lips were parted but remained dumb. Don Manuel resumed: “Thirty years ago this very night—here at this very spot, you brutally killed my poor little sister, Rosetta.” Thurston shrank back. His lips moved, but no sound came. “Oh, attempt no denial,” continued Don Manuel, for the moment clenching a menacing fist over him. “You cannot forget the tell-tale button which you snatched from my hand to hide the proof. Nor have I forgotten the lash of your quirt that drew blood from my cheek”—and he wiped his face with the tips of his fingers as if to rub away the memory of the deadly insult—“the very day on which I buried my dear father and mother,” he added, in a voice vibrant with emotion. He bowed his head; there was another brief period of silence. Then he recovered himself and went on: “The deaths of my beloved parents are just as much on your head, Ben Thurston, as the death of the guileless, innocent, young girl whom you betrayed, and then with coward hands pushed over this cliff, mangling her body on the rocks below. My vengeance has been slow in coming, but after all, I am glad of the delay. For all through these years you have not only suffered the agony of constant fear, but I have lived to see you landless, bereft of the broad rich acres which belonged to my father and were never rightfully yours.” “That’s not so—my claim was established in the law courts.” Thurston managed to articulate the words. The sound of his voice seemed to restore some little measure of courage, for he sat up, and leaning an elbow on a rock, adjusted himself in a more comfortable position. But he did not seek to gain his feet—the bandit’s figure still towered over him. “Law courts—your American law courts!” exclaimed Don Manuel, with ineffable scorn. “You know you bribed the judge who gave the decision. Dare you deny it?” Thurston ventured no denial—his dropped jaw proclaimed his consciousness of guilt. “Nothing was too base for you,” Don Manuel proceeded. “You robbed, despoiled, destroyed my home. But now at last your hour has come. I have waited patiently for this hour. On many an occasion, Ben Thurston, I could have shot you dead from a distance. But I have waited—waited—waited for the time when you would know that it was I, the White Wolf, who was sending you to your doom just as I have already sent your ruffian son to his.” “So it was really you—who murdered my boy?” stammered Thurston. “Don’t call it murder—it was righteous retribution for both him and you. Oh, I can tell you something tonight, for a secret does not pass from a dead man’s lips.” The victim so confidently doomed, shuddered. Don Manuel continued: