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<h3>Chapter Seventy One.</h3> <h4>Le Gros upon Trial.</h4> As O’Gorman gave utterance to the last words of his preparatory speech, he fixed his eyes steadfastly upon the Frenchman. His look confirmed every one in the belief that the allusion had been to the latter. Le Gros at first quailed before the Irishman’s glance; but, perceiving the necessity of putting a bold front on the matter, he made an endeavour to reciprocate it. “Sacré bleu!” he exclaimed. “Monsieur Irlandais why do you look at me? you don’t mean to insinuate that I’ve acted unfairly?” “The divil a bit,” replied the Irishman. “If it’s insinivation yez be talkin’ about, the divil a bit ov that do I mane. Larry O’Gorman isn’t agoin’ to bate about the bush wan way or the tother, Misther Laygrow. He tells ye to yer teeth that it was yer beautiful self putt the exthra button into the bag,—yez did it, Misther Laygrow, and nobody else.” “Liar!” vociferated the Frenchman, with a menacing gesture. “Liar!” “Kape cool, Frenchy. It isn’t Larry the Galwayman that’s goin’ to be scared at yer blusther. I repate,—it was you yourself that putt that button into the bag.” “How do you know that, O’Gorman?” “Can you prove it?” “What proof have you?” were questions that were asked simultaneously by several voices,—among which that of the Frenchman’s confederate was conspicuous. “Phwy, phwat more proof do yez want, than phwat’s alriddy before yez? When I had me hand in the wallet, there wasn’t only the two buttons,—the divil a more. I feeled thim both while I was gropin’ about to make choice betwixt them; an if there had been a third, I wud a feeled that too. I can swear by the holy cross of Saint Pathrick there wasn’t wan more than the two.” “That’s no proof there wasn’t three,” urged the friend of Le Gros. “The third might have been in a wrinkle of the bag, without your feeling it!” “The divil a wrinkle it was in, except the wrinkles in the palm of that spalpeen’s fist! That’s where it was; and I can tell yez all who putt it there. It was this very chap who is so pit-a-pat at explainin’ it. Yez needn’t deny it, Bill Bowler. I saw somethin’ passin’ betwixt yerself and Frenchy,—jest before it come his turn to dhraw. I saw yer flippers touchin’ van another, an’ somethin’ slippin’ in betwane them. I couldn’t tell phwat it was, but, by Jaysus! I thought it quare for all that. I know now phwhat it was,—it was the button.” The Irishman’s arguments merited attention; and received it. The circumstances looked at the least suspicious against Le Gros. To the majority they were conclusive of his guilt. The accusation was supported by other evidence. The man who had preceded O’Gorman in the drawing positively avowed that he could feel only three buttons in the bag; while the one before him, with equal confidence, asserted that when he drew, there were but four. Both declared that they could not be mistaken as to the numbers. They had separately “fingered” each button in the hope of being able to detect that which was bloodstained, and so avoid bringing it forth. “Ach!” ejaculated the Irishman, becoming impatient for the conviction of his guilty antagonist; “phwat’s the use ov talkin’. Frenchy’s the wan that did it. That gropin’ an fumblin’ about the bottom of the wallet was all pretince. He had the button in his shut fist all the time, an’ by Jaysus! he’s entitled to the prize, the same as if he had dhrawn it. It’s him that’s got to die!” “Canaille! liar!” shouted Le Gros; “if I have, you—” And as the words issued from his lips he sprang forward, knife in hand, with the evident design of taking the life of his accuser. “Kape cool!” cried the latter, springing out of reach of his assailant; and with his own blade bared, placing himself on the defensive. “Kape cool, ye frog-atin’ son av a gun, or ye’ll make mate for us sooner than ye expected, ay, before yez have time to put up a pater for yer ugly sowl, that stans most disperately in nade ov it. “Now,” continued the Irishman, after he had fairly placed himself in an attitude of defence; “come an whiniver yer <ANTIMG src="images/waifs264.jpg" alt=""> loike. Larry O’Gorman is riddy for ye, an’ another av the same at yer dhirty back. Hoch,—faugh-a-ballah,—hiloo,—whallabaloo!” <hr /></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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