“And don’t you go calling Ollie Baxter a brother-in-law,” snorted Mr. Sikes. “I won’t stand here and let you slander my lifelong friend by calling him a brother-in-law. If you’ll get out of that automobile, I’ll—” “Hold your horses, Joe,” put in Mr. Link, clutching his crony’s arm. “Oh, he can’t bulldoze me,” said Mr. Gooch loftily. “Smash him, Mr. Sikes,” whispered young Marmaduke Smith, excitedly. Horace turned to his nephew. “It rests with you, young man, whether a certain investigation takes place or not,” he said, threateningly. “What do you mean by investigation?” demanded Oliver, his eyes narrowing. “Just what are you driving at?” His uncle leaned forward and spoke slowly, distinctly. “Is there any evidence that your father ever left this place at all?” Oliver looked his uncle straight in the eye for many seconds, a curious pallor stealing over his face. When he spoke it was with a visible effort; and his voice was low and tense. “There is no evidence to the contrary.” “There’s no evidence at all,” said Gooch, “either one way or the other. There has never been anything like a thorough search for him—in the neighborhood of his own home. From all I can learn, you have run things to suit yourself so far as the search around here is concerned. Well, I am here to say that I’m not satisfied. I don’t believe Oliver Baxter ever ran away from home. I believe he’s out there in that swamp of yours. Now you know what I mean by an investigation, young man—and if it is ever undertaken I want to say to you it won’t be under your direction and it won’t be a half-hearted job. And the swamp won’t be the only place to be searched. There are other places he might be besides that swamp.” “I think I get your meaning, Uncle Horace,” said Oliver, now cool and self-possessed. “If I don’t do what you ask, you’ll start something, eh? Your idea, I take it, is to impress the voters of the county with the idea that my father may have met with foul play, and that I know more about the circumstances than I’ve—” “I am not saying or claiming anything of the sort,” broke in Mr. Gooch hastily, with visions of a suit for slander looming up before him. “I am not accusing you of anything, Oliver. All I want and all I shall insist on is a thorough examination.” “And if I agree to withdraw from the race and perjure myself in the matter of the Bannester tax scandal, you will drop the investigation and forget all about it—is that the idea?” “I hate to take any drastic step that might involve my own nephew in—er—in fact, I’d a good deal sooner not ask the authorities to take a hand in the matter.” “I see. The point I’m trying to get at is this, Uncle Horace,” went on Oliver, relentlessly. “If I do what you ask, you will agree to let me off scot-free even though I may have killed my own father? You can answer that question, can’t you?”