“Who’s coming?” asked a voice from the room.
“It’s me,” replied the youth.
“Any luck?”
“Sure; I’ve got the kid.”
“No! Good for you, Peter!” and then, as the youth and Jimmy entered the room, a man, who seemed to be scrubbing his hands at a sink, looked up, and laughed. “Good enough, Peter,” he went on. “We’ll see what our friend Larry Dexter has to say now. He’ll sing a different tune, I guess.”
“What you doing?” asked Peter Manton, for it was the old copy boy of the Leader who had kidnapped Jimmy, and delivered him into the power of the gang.
“Trying to get rid of that blue stuff on my hands,” was the man’s answer. “It sticks worse than a porous plaster. I’ll not dare to go out now, for that reporter, Newton, will have every detective in New York looking for me, and if they see my hands, even in gloves, they’ll nab me, and the game will be up.”
“Do you think they’ll suspect you?” asked Peter.
“Suspect? They probably know for a certainty that I’m mixed up in this. Those reporters are no fools. They’re better than half the detectives.”
“Will they suspect me?” asked Peter, with something like a whimper in his voice.