“What’s that? You found it? Give it here! That box is mine!”
Hanleigh was standing in the kitchen doorway. His face was livid with rage.
“It belongs to Elroy Jefferson,” returned Frank, “and we are going to return it to him.”
Hanleigh tried to hobble over toward them, but his ankle gave him such pain that he abandoned the attempt and clung to the wall for support.
“I tell you, it’s mine!” he screamed. “You have no right to take it! My uncle left that box to me in his will.”
“He left it to you on condition that you return it to Mr. Jefferson, from whom he stole it,” snapped Frank. “You haven’t a chance to claim it, Hanleigh. We have the box and we intend to give it back to its owner.”
Hanleigh glared at them. Then he shrugged.
“If only this ankle of mine was better, I’d show you!” he rasped. “It’s downright robbery, that’s what it is. I’ll take this matter into the courts and make you give it up to me.”
Frank laughed.
“You won’t go into any court over this affair, Hanleigh. You know it would be the worse for you. We saw the letter you got from the lawyers, telling you that the box must be returned to Mr. Jefferson. Wait until we tell our story. You’ll be lucky if you aren’t arrested. You never intended to live up to those instructions at all.”