"Sergeant," cried the dictator, "remove this disturber of the meeting. He has just assaulted me."
As the police approached the chair the settlers gathered in threatening attitude about their champion, daring the constable to lay hands on their parson.
"We're three hundred to thirty, old man," cried one of the residents to the sergeant in charge. "Don't you make no manner of mistake. We're not a-going to see he touched or walked off."
Speedily all became confusion. Elms tried in vain to make himself heard. At more than one point the police were in conflict with the settlers. After a while, Frank Brown managed by signs of deprecation to secure silence.
"You have not the right," he cried to the constables, "to remove me. Nor have you," he continued, glancing round at his supporters, "the power. Men, sit down," he urged, "let us finish this wretched business. Only beware. Elms, how you act. I have another shot in my locker." And he said very deliberately, gazing scrutinizingly at his adversary, "God alone knows what happened on that desert isle, but I can surmise."
It was but a desperate, haphazard suggestion, intended, if possible, as a last resort to deter the man.
The shaft, however, struck home. Elms winced and drew back in his chair. Then, as if resolving to set at rest for ever the doubts that had been more than once hinted at—suggestions that the doctor might not have had fair play—the man, coming to the edge of the platform, said, with some trepidation—
"I know what you mean to imply, that I am in some way responsible for my predecessor's sad fate. That is a lie! If the dead arose from his watery grave to-day he would exonerate me. He would acknowledge frantic
