"It is no great wonder that I made an error in writing to Mrs. Barker," blurted out Mr. Field impatiently, "but Ben acknowledges himself that he signed the transfer all right, so why should you keep on harping about it like this?" As he spoke, the harassed man sought to catch Ben’s eye, in a desperate endeavour to convey some signal of warning or appeal. "I never knew what the paper contained till this moment," exclaimed Ben, ignoring the look. "It clears up a good deal that was difficult to understand. You remember, Field, you would not let me read it, being as you said, your own private will, and you told me to be sharp about it, as you were in such a hurry to be off. I know now what it was, and why you sat up writing half the night when you believed I was asleep. You considered it a good opportunity to get hold of Barker’s claim, and, seeing he had already done away with himself, I suppose you thought you were safe." "You dare to accuse me in this manner?" shouted Mr. Field, crimsoning with fury. "I challenge you to prove the truth of your words." "I now also know why you wanted Wattie’s letter," continued Ben, taking no notice of the interruption. "I saw you steal it out of the old man’s coat. It was a rare chance for you to copy his name also, he lying powerless in the next room and unable to testify that it was forged." "Can you tell us exactly under what circumstances this interview between you and Mr. Field took place?" asked Judge Simmons. "When I put my name there, in Wattie’s own hut in the backwoods," replied Ben, "he had already been felled by the cowardly blow, and Barker had been gone some hours." "Did you see Barker knock the old man down?" questioned Mr. Pratt. "Barker never lifted a finger against anyone," answered Ben bluntly. "Why then, who struck him?" exclaimed Judge Simmons in surprise. "There stands the man who did it!" said Ben, dramatically pointing with his finger at Mr. Field, as he stood livid and trembling before his accuser. "He evidently thought I was too drunk to notice it, but I had still enough sense to know what happened. Field and Wattie had been playing cards, and no doubt Field lost, for all of a sudden he got up in a towering rage, shouting out something about a cheat. I myself saw Field dash Wattie to the ground with his fist. The poor chap fell against a corner of the table, gashing his head horribly upon the edge. I watched Field go to him and bind up the wound, but the old man never spoke or moved. Field then carried him to the inner room where there was a bed, and shut the door. "What had Barker to do with it then?" enquired Judge Simons. "Gerald had no hand in it at all," answered Ben. "He was lying on the floor all the time, sleeping off his bout. Field had been egging him on to drink the whole evening, and he had had more than enough, being a tender-foot and not used to our liquor." "What followed?" asked Mr. Pratt, as he jotted down something in his note-book.