From a pocket he produced the typewritten confession which Tucker had been forced to sign.
“No, it’s no good now,” he muttered, after reading it over. “The little rat could prove he was compelled to sign against his will. If any one tried to use this document, it would get him into a nasty scrape. This will settle it.”
In front of the fireplace he struck a match and applied the flame to one corner of the paper.
“What are you doing?” cried a voice that made him jump as if struck by a bolt.
The burning paper fluttered to the hearth, and Lynch turned a pale face toward the lad who had softly opened the door and thrust his head into the room.
“Gee!” he breathed, with mingled relief and resentment. “You gave me a jerk. What the dickens do you mean by poking your head into my room and yelling like that? Come in and shut that door.”
Bern Wolfe needed no invitation. Slamming the door behind him, he leaped toward the hearth and placed his foot on the burning paper.
“Get away! get away!” said Lynch, catching the visitor by the collar, and jerking him back. “Let it burn.”
“It’s Tucker’s confession!”
“Yes.”