"I'm so anxious to know whether Prescott fell into the trap that
I can hardly wait another minute."
"You'd better wait until morning, or you'll tumble into something with your eyes shut, and that will mean both of us nabbed," growled another voice.
"Do you think they found Prescott—-that they believed in the appearances against him?"
"I can't say," came the other low voice. "And I can wait. I'm not crazy on the subject, as you seem to be."
"Explain this all over again, to us, won't you?" shouted the chief, pushing open the door of the junk shop and striding in, backed by the light and the revolver of Officer Delmar.
"What?" screamed Phin Drayne, then sank to his knees in the extremity of his terror.
"Don't either of you try to put up any fight," warned the chief. "Delmar, here are my handcuffs to put with your own. Hand me your light, and then iron both of these fellows securely."
The owner of the junk shop, a man under thirty, dirty and low browed, stood cowering back against a bench. The fellow looked as though he would have fought had there been any chance to draw a weapon. But he was gazing straight into the muzzle of the police chief's weapon.
An instant later both prisoners had been handcuffed, and a pistol had been taken from the clothing of each. From the junkman, too, had been taken a ring of keys.
"One of these fit your door?" demanded Simmons.