"You trapped me," he said bitterly. "With golden bait," she admitted, her voice oddly spiritless. "Yes." "Well," he challenged, "what are you going to do about it?" "Do? I don't know!" Again they grew silent, studying each other intently. Norton, his poise coming back to him as the unusual color receded from his face, smiled at her with an affectation of his old manner. Suddenly he stepped back to her table, noiselessly set down the coins, eased himself into a chair. "You wished to thresh things out? I am ready. And in case we should be interrupted, you know, I have called on you in your official capacity. We'll say that I am troubled by the old wound in the head; that will do as well as anything, won't it?" "It was you who robbed the bank at Pozo!" she cried softly, leaning toward him, the look in her eyes one of dread now. "And the mine superintendent at Las Palmas? And I don't know how many other people. It was you!" She had startled him in the beginning; she knew she would not draw another sign of surprise from him. He had himself under control, and long years of severe training made that control complete. He merely looked interested under her sweeping accusation. "You must have a reason for a charge like that," he remarked evenly. "Do you deny it?" "I deny nothing, I affirm nothing right now. I say that you must have a reason for what you state." "You put the incriminating evidence in del Rio's trunk," she ran on hurriedly. "The canvas bags of gold. Didn't you?" "Reason?" he insisted equably. "You took Caleb Patten's fountain pen! I saw you." He lifted his brows at her. Then he laughed softly. "In the first place," he replied thoughtfully, "I really believe that he is not Caleb at all but Charles Patten. We'll talk of that later, however. In the second place isn't it rather humorous to wind up by accusing a man with the theft of a fountain pen after your other charges?" "Answer one question," she urged earnestly. "Please. It is only a small matter. Give me your word of honor that you will answer it truthfully." He was very grave as he sat for a moment, head down, twirling his big hat in slow fingers. Then he smiled again as he looked up. "Either truthfully or not at all," he promised her. "My word of honor." She was plainly excited as she set him her question, seeming at once eager and afraid to have his response. "I saw you take Patten's fountain pen and a scrap of note-paper from the table by your bed when you were hurt--the first time I called to see how you were doing. I thought that perhaps there was something of importance written on the paper, that, if nothing else, you wanted a bit of Patten's handwriting to use in your proof that he was not the man he pretended to be. You slipped both pen and paper under your pillow. Tell me just this: Was that paper of any importance whatever, of any interest even, to you?"