The boy circled his lips with the tip of his tongue.
“But why—why?” he whispered. “I—I never did anything to you.”
“Sure, you didn’t!” Laroque’s tones were brutally amiable now. “It’s your father. We’ve an idea that maybe he won’t be so keen about going ahead with that little investigation of the private clubs after we’ve put a certain little proposition about his son up to him.”
“No, no! No—you won’t!” Clarie Archman’s voice rose suddenly shrill, beyond control. “You won’t! You can’t! You’re in it yourselves”—he pointed his finger wildly at one and then the other of the two men—“you—you!”
“Think so?” drawled Laroque. “All right, you tell ‘em so—tell the jury about it, tell your father, who is such a shark on evidence, about it. Sure, I’m in on it with you—but you don’t know who I am. They’ll have a hot time finding J. Barca, Esquire! I’m thinking of taking a little trip to Florida for my health, and my valet’s got my grip all packed! Savvy? And now listen to Sonnino. Sonnino’s a wonder in the witness box. Niccolo, tell the jury what you know about this unfortunate young man.”
Sonnino, a wicked grin on his face, made a dramatic flourish with the hand that held the revolver.
“Well, I was asleep upstairs. I wakened. I thought I heard a noise downstairs. I listened. Then I got up, and went down the stairs quiet like a mouse. I turned on the light quick—like this”—he snapped his fingers. “Two men have broken open my safe, and they have my money, a lot of money, for I keep all my money there; I do not bank—no. They rush at me, they knock me down, they make their escape, but I recognise one of them—it is Mister the young Archman, who I have many times seen at The Sphinx Café—yes. Well, and then on the floor I find a letter.” He grinned wickedly again. “Have you the letter that I find—Mister Barca?”
“Sure,” said Gentleman Laroque—and reached into his pocket. “It was addressed to Martin Moore on Sixth Avenue, wasn’t it?”
“My God!” It came in a sudden, pitiful cry from the boy, and his hand involuntarily went to his own pocket. “You—you’ve got that letter!”
“Do you think you’re up against a piker game!” exclaimed Laroque maliciously. “Well then, forget it! You didn’t have this in your pocket half an hour before it was lifted by one of the slickest poke-getters in the whole of little old New York.” He was taking a letter from its envelope and opening out the sheet. “That’s the kind of a crowd that’s in on this, my bucko! Listen, and I’ll read the letter. It looked innocent enough when you got it, in view of what I told you about knowing a man who would lend you the money. But pipe how it sounds with Sonnino’s safe bored full of holes. Are you listening? ‘It’s all right. Niccolo Sonnino has got his safe crammed full to-night. Meet me at Bristol Bob’s at eleven. J. Barca.’”