"Then Styles must have done the job, since there was no one else."
"Didn't he tell you that he can prove an alibi! That he was over to
Stony Hill at the time the deed was done?"
"Yes, but if that is true, then you are guilty. You got that poison
from Henry Bloom, and he told Tom Ostrello that he let you have it.
There is where you blundered. Ostrello and others are on your track.
You can't escape unless you can prove an alibi, too."
Again John Watkins shrank back as if struck a blow.
"Who—who told this—who says—" he began hoarsely.
"Matlock Styles."
"Then he can go to perdition! I'll not stand up for him a minute longer. Yes, I got the poison, but I gave it to him. I can prove it by the old woman who works for him, if I have to wring her neck to make her speak. She heard me tell him how to use it. He trusts her, because he has her where the hair is short. She killed a child years ago, when she ran a baby farm. And then about that alibi—" The secret service man laughed bitterly. "So that's his game, if it comes to a showing of hands? Well, I can put a spoke in his wheel. He was at Stony Hill, was he? Well, so was I. I can prove that, too."
There was a pause, during which the secret service man took another drink of liquor. He was plainly very nervous. With great deliberation, Adam Adams drew from one pocket a pistol, and from another a pair of handcuffs.
"The scene is ended, Mr. Watkins," he said coolly. "I want you to slip on those and come with me." And he threw the handcuffs on the table, and leveled the pistol at the fellow's head.
The man staggered and threw up his hands, half expecting a shot. He suddenly began to tremble, as if with the ague.