clenched, the red sweeping over his face--and then he shook one fist at
Carruthers.

"So that's your game, is it!" he stormed. "Trying to crawl out of that
twenty-five thousand reward, eh? And as for you"--he turned on Jimmie
Dale--"you've rigged up a nice little plant between you, eh? Well, it
won't work--and I'll make you squirm for this, both of you, damn you,
before I'm through!" He glared from one to the other for a moment--then
swung on his heel. "Good-afternoon, gentlemen," he sneered, as he
started for the door.

He was halfway across the room before Jimmie Dale spoke.

"Clayton!"

Clayton turned. Jimmie Dale was still leaning over the desk, but now one
elbow was propped upon it, and in the most casual way a revolver covered
Inspector Clayton.

"If you attempt to leave this room," said Jimmie Dale, without raising
his voice, "I assure you that I shall fire with as little compunction as
though I were aiming at a mad dog--and I apologise to all mad dogs for
coupling your name with them." His voice rang suddenly cold. "Come back
here, and sit down in that chair!"

The colour ebbed slowly from Clayton's face. He hesitated--then sullenly
retraced his steps; hesitated again as he reached the chair, and finally
sat down.

"What--what d'ye mean by this?" he stammered, trying to bluster.