“Sure, we ought to get rid of him—and get rid of those boys of his, too.”
“That’s easier said than done,” returned Snackley, but with a sinister look at the man on the cot.
“I should think you had enough on your conscience already, Snackley!” exclaimed Fenton Hardy. “But I suppose you’re hardened enough for anything,” he added bitterly. He was thinking more of his sons and their possible fate than of himself.
“Don’t you bother about my conscience,” sneered Snackley; but a shadow crossed his face. “What do you know about me, anyhow?” he demanded roughly.
“I know all about what happened to Felix Polucca. He had a big treasure hidden in that house on the cliff and you got it, and then you started to use the place for your smuggling operations.”
“O, shut up!” Snackley snapped. “I’m going to fix you, and those kids of yours, too! Just wait and see!”
Four of the smugglers had been whispering among themselves at the back of the room during this talk between the chief smuggler and the detective, and now one of these men stepped forward.
“Got a word to say to you, chief,” he began, addressing Snackley.
“What is it now?” The chief smuggler’s voice was surly.
“It’s about what’s to be done with these three, now we have ’em prisoners,” returned the man hesitatingly. “Of course, your business is your own and we’re not asking any questions about what happened to Felix Polucca, but we’re in this game of smuggling, see? We don’t stand for anything that’s too red-handed.”