“You talk of plots—you!” The young man’s voice was hard, cold, full of unutterable contempt. “Do you happen to know the penalty for conspiracy to commit arson—and worse?”
“I don’t know—what you mean,” faltered Crane, avoiding the dark eyes bent so keenly on his face.
“Oh, yes, you do. Look at these.”
With a swift, dramatic motion Bainbridge suddenly jerked from his pocket some sheets of paper covered closely with erect, spitefully black writing, and held them before Crane.
“Your own hand,” he accused. “Instructions to your henchman, Bill Kollock? I think the jury at your trial will consider them proof enough.”
Crane’s jaw dropped. His white face had turned a sickly green.
“You—wouldn’t—dare!” he gasped.
“Wouldn’t I? Just let me show you.”
Without waiting a reply, Bob leaned over, and, picking up one of the telephones, stood erect.
“Headquarters,” he said briefly. Then, after a momentary pause: “That you, chief? This is Bainbridge. Will you send up those two plain-clothes men we arranged about? Yes, the arrest can be made any time. That’s all. Thank you!”