Maxwell, who had sat as a silent listener, shook his head sadly and got up and went out, followed by Benson. A little later Sprague, standing at the window, saw them trying out the electric locomotive in short runs up and down the tunnel approach. Starbuck came out of his corner and snapped the manacles on Stribling’s wrists, and the young man made no resistance. Sprague turned at the click of the handcuffs, standing to frown down thoughtfully upon the self-confessed wrecker.
“I was in hopes we were going to get the men higher up this time; get them so they would stay got,” he said, half to himself. “But it seems that a bit of common human gratitude is going to blunder around and get in the way. Stribling, I’m honestly sorry for you. I’m afraid we made a mistake in not letting you get hold of that gun a few minutes ago.”
The young man with the honest eyes looked up quickly. “You did, indeed, Mr. Sprague. It’s the simplest way out of it for me.”
“You are still determined not to do the larger justice by giving us the information we need?”
The young man raised his manacled hands.
“Think of it a minute,” he pleaded. “You wouldn’t do it yourself; you know you wouldn’t.”
“I don’t know—I don’t know; perhaps I shouldn’t,” admitted the big man thoughtfully. Then he went on with visible reluctance: “I’m afraid we shall have to pinch you, and pinch you hard, my boy. And it’s a shame, when you were only a tool in the hands of the men who ought to do time for this thing. I suppose we shall be taking the seven o’clock passenger back to Brewster. Is there anything you’d like to do before it comes along?”
“Yes; I’d like to write a letter or two.”
“You shall do it, and you shall have privacy.” And then to Starbuck: “Fix him so that he can.”
Starbuck unlocked the manacle from Stribling’s right wrist and locked it again around the arm of the office chair. “Will that give you room enough?” he asked.