A moment later Dave halted before two stone steps that led down
to a basement junk shop.
Just as he did so a low voice inside could be heard, saying in
barely audible tones:
"I'm so anxious to know whether Prescott fell into the trap that
I can hardly wait another minute."
"You'd better wait until morning, or you'll tumble into something
with your eyes shut, and that will mean both of us nabbed," growled
another voice.
"Do you think they found Prescott---that they believed in the
appearances against him?"
"I can't say," came the other low voice. "And I can wait. I'm
not crazy on the subject, as you seem to be."
"Explain this all over again, to us, won't you?" shouted the chief,
pushing open the door of the junk shop and striding in, backed
by the light and the revolver of Officer Delmar.
"What?" screamed Phin Drayne, then sank to his knees in the extremity
of his terror.
"Don't either of you try to put up any fight," warned the chief.
"Delmar, here are my handcuffs to put with your own. Hand me
your light, and then iron both of these fellows securely."
The owner of the junk shop, a man under thirty, dirty and low
browed, stood cowering back against a bench. The fellow looked
as though he would have fought had there been any chance to draw
a weapon. But he was gazing straight into the muzzle of the police
chief's weapon.
An instant later both prisoners had been handcuffed, and a pistol
had been taken from the clothing of each.
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