“Where’s that red bag that started all the 250 trouble?” demanded Chief Hunter. Joe Dawson produced it.
“You can’t open that,” leered Dalton, though he spoke uneasily.
“If we can’t unlock it, we’ll cut it open with a sharp breadknife,” mocked Hunter. “Yet I reckon thet we’ll find the key in yer pocket.”
This guess turned out to be correct. The key was inserted in the lock and the bag opened. Powell Seaton pushed forward to help the police official in the inspection of the contents.
“There are my papers,” cried Powell Seaton, grabbing at two envelopes.
“Look ’em over, ef you want, but I reckon I’ll haveter have ’em to go with the prisoner,” assented Chief Hunter.
“They’re the same papers that this fellow stole—one set from Clodis, and the other from my bungalow through a helper,” cried Mr. Seaton.
Anson Dalton watched Seaton with a strange, sinister look.
“Gracious! Look at these, here!” gasped Chief Hunter, opening a small leather case. Nearly a score of flashing white stones greeted his eyes.
“Di’munds, I reckon,” guessed the police chief.