"My man Critz," he said. "You know him — the one in charge of bringing the bonus and the pay roll. He has thirty under him, Judge, but we don't want that many. Six will be enough. Critz has his own pets, men who will do anything I tell them.
"I'll start them down tonight. Masked vigilantes. Drop in on Delmar's place, and get that fellow. Drag him out front, and shoot him. Carry away the girl. The town will go mad. All for the unknown vigilantes—"
"You've struck it right!" declared Judge approvingly. "No one will ever know. Handle it carefully, Bronlon."
The millionaire arose and lumbered heavily from the room. He came back with a grin on his face.
"I called Critz on the telephone," he said. "Told him to get up here right away — and to say nothing about it. He'll be here in ten minutes.
"You listen in the other room. Wait and hear me handle this. I'll tell Critz to get his men and tell them that this job is his own idea. He can say that the men downtown have been talking about it — that the Middletown people are yellow, and don't have the nerve.
"It will never get back to me, Judge. I won't know a thing about it, even if Critz's name is mentioned. I'm telling Critz that at the start. He will understand. But he'll have a nice sum waiting for him if he puts this over."
"Exactly," smiled Judge.
Deacon's morose face gleamed.
Bronlon's two companions arose and went into a side room where they could listen without being seen. Jake Critz, Bronlon's chief man at arms, would be here within ten minutes.