“It’s not impossible,” Stillman retorted sharply. “The whole thing’s as plain as print. Lefty caught him with the goods.”
Slowly Wilmerding turned his eyes on Locke. The look in them was that of one who is unable to credit the evidence of his senses.
“It’s true,” Locke affirmed, wondering curiously what brought that extraordinary expression into the other’s face. “I saw the watch in his possession.”
Wilmerding dropped his lids and swallowed hard. For a moment or two he sat staring at his lap, where his plump, well-cared-for hands lay, the fingers tightly interlaced. His mouth was twitching nervously and his face was still pale. At last he raised his head again and glanced at Stillman.
“It isn’t possible, Jack,” he said unevenly. “You’ve made a big mistake.”
“Don’t be a fool, Oggie,” the reporter snapped. “There isn’t a chance of that. What the deuce do you know about it, anyhow?”
Wilmerding moistened his dry lips. “A great deal,” he said slowly. “I—was the—thief, myself.”
“You?” exclaimed both men together.
Then Locke laughed oddly. “Jove! That was well done, Oggie,” he exclaimed. “We both bit beautifully.”
Wilmerding shook his head. His eyes were tortured.