“Who was he?” demanded one of the government men, turning to Doc Birch. “A friend of yours?”
“Boloney,” snarled the pawnbroker. “You fellows let him get away. He was in with you. Planted the plates; that’s what he did. You’re framing me.”
His protests were ignored. The policeman made a few notations on a pad. He left the building, and the secret-service men followed with their captive.
Reaching the street, they took Doc Birch to a car. Two of them remained after the others had gone.
“Let’s take a look back of the house, Jim,” said one. “Maybe that tough guy’s hiding there.”
“All right. Where’s the cop?”
“He went around that direction. I told him to look.”
The two men entered the alley. They came to a space behind the house, and one of them, probing in an obscure corner, uttered a loud exclamation of surprise.
“Here’s a fellow tied up, Jim!”
The other man joined him. Under their flashlights they saw the form of a policeman, his coat draped over his shoulders; his cap lying on the ground.