"Just this," said Jimmie Dale. "That I accuse you of the murder of Jake
Metzer--IT WAS YOU WHO MURDERED METZER."

"Good God!" burst suddenly from Carruthers.

"You lie!" yelled Clayton--and again he surged up from his chair.

"That is what Stace Morse said," said Jimmie Dale coolly. "Sit down!"

Then Clayton tried to laugh. "You're--you're having a joke, ain't you?
It was Stace--I can prove it. Come down to headquarters, and I can prove
it. I got the goods on him all the way. I tell you"--his voice rose
shrilly--"it was Stace Morse."

"You are a despicable hound," said Jimmie Dale, through set lips.
"Here"--he handed the revolver over to Carruthers--"keep him covered,
Carruthers. You're going to the CHAIR for this, Clayton," he said, in
a fierce monotone. "The chair! You can't send another there in your
place--this time. Shall I draw you now--true to life? You've been
grafting for years on every disreputable den in your district. Metzer
was going to show you up; and so, Metzer being in the road, you removed
him. And you seized on the fact of Stace Morse having paid a visit to
him this afternoon to fix the crime on--Stace Morse. Proofs? Oh, yes, I
know you've manufactured proofs enough to convict him--if there weren't
stronger proofs to convict YOU."

"Convict ME!" Clayton's lower jaw hung loosely; but still he made
an effort at bluster. "You haven't a thing on me--not a thing--not a
thing."