“There,” he said at last, “there’s a full confession of my connection with the running down of Buckhart’s boat, and of my attempt to destroy Merriwell’s ghost with silver bullets. Now, what I need is a witness for my signature.”
The witness appeared directly, for Bern Wolfe entered without pausing to rap.
“Thought I’d come round to find out how you are, Mike,” said Wolfe. “By George, you got a bump! What the dickens were you doing, anyhow? You left us on the bleachers, and went hustling away, after announcing that you couldn’t stay there any longer, and had decided to leave the field. How’d you happen to get in there where you could be hit by that ball?”
“Never mind that,” said Lynch. “You’re just the fellow I want to use. I have a little document here that I’m about to sign. I want you to attach your name as witness.”
Wolfe started to pick up the confession, but Lynch hastened to prevent him.
“It’s private,” he said. “I can’t let you read it, you know. All I wish of you is that you put your name on as a witness to the genuineness of my signature.”
“That’s funny,” muttered Bern. “I don’t often sign anything unless I know what I’m hitching my name to.”
“I’m not asking you to sign it. I’m asking you to append your name as a witness to my signature. I give you my word that it won’t get you into any trouble. Here, I’m going to put my name to it.”
Mike did so, writing his name in big, flourishing letters.
“Sit down,” he said, getting up from the chair and covering the paper with a blank sheet which left no more than the bottom line and his own signature in view.
Wolfe took the chair and picked up a pen, dipping it into the larger ink bottle.
“Hold on!” cried Mike, catching his wrist and checking him. “Don’t use that ink.”
“Well, for certain reasons that I won’t name. Take that other pen, please, and use the ink from this smaller bottle.”
“Aren’t you rather fussy?” grunted Wolfe, as he complied. “Where do you want me to write and what do you want me to write?”
“Write here,” indicated Mike. “Write these words: ‘Witness for M. J. Lynch.’ Then sign your name.”
Bern followed instructions, and then paused, with pen suspended.
“Hey? What’s this?” he muttered, staring at the exposed line of writing. “What’s this about ‘a full and complete confession?’”