“Wait!”
Drew and Nichols leaned forward. “Well?” asked the detective, as the prisoner bowed his head. “Well? Well?”
“Is that true about my brother—Morphy?”
“It is!” Drew said with ringing conviction. “It’s true! He’s out of this world. He’s buried alive and the key has been thrown away.”
“The jig is up, then,” said the trouble-man, turning toward the telephone. “Let me telephone,” he said in a whisper. “I want to use it,” he repeated faintly. “I’ll show you how that—that Stockbridge died.”
“THE VOICE ON THE WIRE”
The prisoner lifted his manacled hands and held them toward Drew. “Let me loose,” he said, “and I’ll explain everything that I’ve done! I want it off my mind. I won’t sleep until you people are satisfied. I know you—you copper! I know Fosdick—the third degree artist.”
Drew frowned as he glanced at the cuffs. He scratched his dark hair and combed his fingers back toward his ears. He turned and glanced at Loris and Nichols in the opening between the two splendid rooms.