“I am sorry you still think it necessary to deny the fact.” “Dr. Bilks,” said Dick Birch, jumping out of his chair, and throwing away his cigar, “you are either the most deeply injured man in the world, or you are the most infernal scoundrel that goes unhung.” “Then I have been more deeply injured, in your estimation, than I supposed I had,” replied the doctor, meekly. “Do you expect to prove that I was the stranger?” “I think it will be proved--my general belief in the omnipotence of truth leads me to this conclusion.” “Now, doctor, suppose we change the issue: my general belief in the omnipotence of truth leads me to the conclusion that _you_ will be proved to be the stranger.” Even the slight change which came over the face of Dr. Bilks was not unnoticed by Birch. He smiled, looked injured, and pronounced the conclusion a most unwarrantable one. “Will you be as candid with me as I have been with you? On what grounds do you charge me?” “Can you prove to me where you were from nine till two on that night?” “I have already testified on that point.” “And your testimony was not worth a brass farthing Do you expect me, or any one, to believe this ridiculous story about the baby?” “I certainly do.” “What became of the baby?” “How should I know?” “Did you report its birth and death to the town clerk?” “I did--you will find the record of a still-born infant, if you look; though this is no part of my duty by law. I knew the child would not live when I left it.” “Could you induce Sandy McGuire to point out the place where the child was buried?” “Undoubtedly I could, and I will do so.” “Do you know?” “I do not. Sandy McGuire is an ignorant man, and is probably afraid that he has done something wrong. I am not surprised that he would not tell you.” It was midnight when Mr. Birch left the doctor’s office, satisfied that he had not made a single point. Even in the matter of Dr. Bilks’s baby, it certainly looked as though the author of the myth would be able to establish the truth of all he said. Dick was discouraged. He did not sleep any that night; he lay tossing upon his bed, thinking of his own doubtful position before the community. CHAPTER XIX. THE ROPE AND THE WEIGHT. To say that Mr. Richard Birch was unhappy as he tossed upon his bed that night, would not appropriately express his mental condition. He was not unhappy; he was vexed, perplexed, annoyed. He had devoted his first spare time since the murder to an investigation of the circumstances attending the event. The result of his inquiries was only evidence against himself.