“Nobody sent me,” growled Slade with an obstinate shake of his big head. “I just came of my own accord, and that’s all I’ll tell you—or the cops either!”
“Very well then, perhaps you’ll listen while I tell you something,” began Ned, quietly. “You are one of a gang that is making some use of this property of ours. The tug Irma comes close to shore here and picks up the old dredge ranges. A truck makes night trips back and forth through that old wood-road between here and the Cleveland highway. Now, who besides yourself is mixed up in this and what is it all about?”
Slade maintained a sullen silence, and after a moment Ned continued. “I’ll tell you who two of them are,” he said deliberately and without taking his eyes from Slade’s face. “One is a tall, red-faced man named Miller and the other is—Latrobe.”
“That’s what you’re guessing,” sneered Slade. “The chances are you’ve never set eyes on Latrobe.”
“Yes, I’ve seen him three times,” was the quiet reply. “Once when he wore a diving-suit, and again when he rode up to Cleveland on my ice-boat; but the last time I saw him was when he was talking to Miller out in the old wood-road last Thursday night.”
At these words, Slade straightened in his chair with an involuntary start of surprise and the furtive look that flashed into his black eyes proved a sudden inspiration to Ned, who was watching him keenly.
“You remember, Slade,” Ned continued in a tone of assurance. “You remember how the slabs fell down and Latrobe and Miller jumped out of the truck? You were in the shanty, signaling with a flashlight.”
“Where were you?” The question burst from Slade’s throat in a gasp of astonishment, which was ample confirmation of the correctness of Ned’s guess.
“Oh, we were behind the pile of slabs—Dave Wilbur and I,” laughed Ned.
“Yeah, I’ll say we were!” exclaimed Dave in his wheezy whisper. “We were there all right—but I’ve learned a lot more in the last minute than I suspected then!”