“What time was this?” Nicolo Capriano's eyes were on the foot of the bed.
“Three o'clock this morning,” Barjan answered.
The old bomb king's fingers began to pluck at the coverlet. A minute passed. His eyes, from the foot of the bed, fixed for an instant moodily on Barjan's face—and sought the foot of the bed again.
Barjan broke the silence.
“So you do know something about it, eh, Nicolo?” he prodded softly.
“I didn't know anything had happened until you said so,” returned Nicolo Capriano curtly. “But seeing it has happened, maybe I——” He cut his words off short, and eyed the plain-clothesman again. “Is the man dead?” he demanded, with well-simulated sudden suspicion. “You aren't lying to me—eh? I trust none of you!”
“Dead!” ejaculated Barjan almost hysterically. “Good God—dead! Didn't I tell you he was blown into unrecognizable atoms!”
The sharp, black eyes lingered a little longer on Barjan's face. The result appeared finally to allay Nicolo Capriano's suspicions.
“Well, all right, then, I'll tell you,” he said, but there was a grudging note still in the old bomb king's voice. “It can't do the man any harm if he's dead. I guess you'll know who it is. It's the fellow who pulled that hundred thousand dollar robbery about five years ago on old man Tydeman—the fellow that went by the name of Dave Henderson. I don't know whether that's his real name or not.”
“What!” shouted Barjan. He had lost his composure. He was up from his chair, and staring wildly at the old man on the bed. “You're crazy!” he jerked out suddenly. “Either you're lying to me, or you're off your nut! You——”