“Well, you all know what we’ve got to do,” Emory said, angrily. “We’ve got to get rid of the boy and this old man. If we do not, there is an end of a rather profitable business. Besides, with Albert Lemon dead, I become his heir, with no possible chance of being identified as Felix Emory.”
“You devil!” shouted the old man. “You murderer!”
Enraged by the exclamation, Emory made a rush for the old man, but was stopped by a voice from the doorway opening into the rear room.
“That’ll be all for you!” the voice said.
It was Jimmie who stood in the doorway, smiling, and making about the worst bow a Boy Scout ever made.
“Don’t wiggle about so, gentlemen,” he added, “for the men behind this partition have you all covered with repeating rifles, and some of them are nervous. Stand still while a friend of mine presents you with wristlets.”
Jap turned and faced the frightened group and then pointed to the wall, near the ceiling, where a line of two-inch holes were seen, at each hole a shining eye.
“You see,” he said, “I cut those holes there to-night, so the boys wouldn’t have to lie hidden under the furniture. There’s a gun behind every one of them. And now, with your permission—”
Jimmie passed out a bunch of clattering, ringing handcuffs, and Jap slipped them on the wrists of the prisoners. As he did so Frank came dashing into the room, swinging his cap aloft. Ernest, Jack, Pat and Liu were there, too, overjoyed at the great victory.
“Wow!” he cried. “Here’s a wire saying that the bunch was captured at Portland to-night, and another from Missoula says the men left in the caverns were caught yesterday. I have the honor to report, Mr. Sherlock Holmes Nestor,” he added, with a low bow, “that the round-up is complete.”