"What do you mean, sir?" demanded the Judge, plucking up his courage for a moment.
"I mean that the distinguished jurist, Hugh Butler, who had the honour of presiding over the trial of Jefferson Davis, and now aspires to the leadership of his party in the South, was living in a stolen house when he delivered his famous charge concerning traitors to the grand jury, that morning in Richmond. It is with peculiar personal pleasure that I now brand you to your face—coward, liar, perjurer, thief!"
John paused a moment to watch the effects of his words on his enemy. The cold sweat began to appear in the bald spot above the Judge's forehead, and his answer came with gasping feeble emphasis:
"I bought this house and paid for it!"
"Exactly!" sneered the younger man. "But I never knew until I got this letter"—he drew the letter from his pocket—"just how you came to buy a house which cost $50,000 for so trifling a sum of money."
"Who wrote that letter?" interrupted the Judge eagerly.
"Evidently a friend of yours, once high in your councils, who has grown of late to love you as passionately as I do. And I think he could put a knife into your ribs with as much pleasure."
