Mr. Penfield's voice had risen, so that it rang through the room, and
his words followed each other in cold indictment. The others stood
watching my father with strained attention.

"Indeed," he said.

"Yes," said Mr. Penfield, "as you so aptly put it--indeed. Your ship
carrying that consignment, had Jason Hill as supercargo, and Ned Aiken,
that damned parasite of yours, as master. A day out from this port, a
plank sprung aft, which obliged him to put back to Boston for repairs.
The cargo was trans-shipped. When it was aboard again, Jason Hill
happened to examine that cargo. The furs had gone. In their place five
hundred bales of chips had been loaded in the hold. He went to the master
for an explanation. Mr. Aiken, who had been drinking heavily, was asleep
in the cabin, and on the table beside him was a letter, Shelton. You
remember that letter? It bore instructions from you to scuttle that ship
ten miles out of Liverpool harbor."

"And," said my father, with another bow, "I was to collect the insurance.
It was nicely planned."

"If you remember that, you recall what happened next. We called on you,
Shelton, and accused you of what you had done. You neither confirmed
nor denied it. We told you then to leave the town. We warned you never
to return. We warned you that we were through with your trickery. We
were through with your cheating and your thieving. We warned you,
Shelton, and now you're back, back, by your own confession, on another
rogue's errand."