“Aw, a money swindle! And a—a—theft of money from a scow-dwelling! Really, gentlemen, this is—a—a—a—deuced good joke!” And then he laughed, laughed in a shrill, screechy falsetto key, unnatural, and chilling as an icy breath from the Arctic.
“This is no joke, sir, as you will soon realize.”
“You have been detected. Your villainy is exposed, and your damned rascality is at an end,” said the irate Mr. Harris.
“For twenty years in the pen at Salem, eh, old chappie!” said Sam, with a grin of satisfaction.
“Curse the luck,” muttered Rutley to himself. “What a fool I was not to have vanished last night. It’s deuced ugly, don’t-che know,” he continued aloud, in the same cutting accents. “Let me warn you, gentlemen, there is a limit to one’s forbearance!”
“You are a cheat, a villain, an imposter!” fumed Mr. Harris. “And there is the proof,” and he flourished the cablegram in Rutley’s face. “You are imposing on the public under the cloak of an assumed title, and unless you immediately hand over to me ten thousand dollars I shall give you into custody.”
“Of the officers of the law, eh, Auntie?” and as Sam uttered the last words, up went his right hand extended straight with the index finger pointing aloft.
It was the signal agreed upon for the officers to appear, and forthwith they emerged with Jack Shore between them, and Smith following, from a vine inclosed arbor, partially concealed by a group of trees a few rods down the hill.
Pretending not to notice the approach of the officers and their prisoner, Sam grinned at Rutley and banteringly said:
“Come now, own up, you intentionally put me ‘out of business’ with the automobile. But it was a bungled job, wasn’t it, old chappie?”