"What's your name?" demanded Garrison.
"Tuttle," said the fellow, after a moment of hesitation. "Frank
Tuttle."
"All right, Tuttle. You furnished Theodore Robinson with information concerning my movements and, in addition to your burglary at Branchville, you have made yourself accessory to a plot to commit a willful murder."
"I didn't! By Heaven, I didn't!" Tuttle answered. "I didn't have anything to do with that."
"With what?" asked Garrison. "You see you plunge into every trap I lay, almost before it is set."
He rose, went to his closet, never without his eye on his man, searched on the floor and brought forth the cold iron bomb. This he abruptly placed on Tuttle's knee.
Tuttle shrank in terror.
"Oh, Lord! I didn't! I didn't know they went in to do a thing like that!" he said. "I've been pretty desperate, I admit, Mr. Garrison, but I had no hand in this!"
The sweat on his forehead advertised his fear. He looked at Garrison in a stricken, ghastly manner that almost excited pity.
"But you knew that two of Robinson's assassins were to meet me in the park," said Garrison. "You procured their services—and expected to read of an accident to me in the papers the following morning."