He was risking a mere conjecture, but it went very near to the truth.
"So help me, I didn't go as far as that!" said Tuttle. "I admit I stole the letter up at Branchville, and sent it to Robinson at once. I admit I followed you back to New York and told him all I could. But I only gave him the names and addresses of the dagos, and I never knew what they had to do!"
Garrison took the bomb and placed it on his bureau.
"Very good," he said. "That makes you, as I said before, an accomplice to the crime attempted—in addition to the burglary, for which I could send you up. To square this off you'll go to work for me, and begin by supplying the names and addresses of your friends."
Tuttle was a picture of abject fear and defeat. His jaw hung down; his eyes were bulging in their sockets.
"You—you mean you'll give me a chance?" he said. "I'll do anything—anything you ask, if only you will!"
"Look here, Tuttle, your willingness to do anything has put you where you are. But I'll give you a chance, with the thorough understanding that the minute you attempt the slightest treachery you'll go up in spite of all you can do. First, we'll have the names of the dagos."
Tuttle all but broke down. He was not a hardened criminal. He had merely learned a few of the tricks by which crime may be committed, and, having failed in detective employment, had no substantial calling and was willing to attempt even questionable jobs, if the pay were found sufficient.
He supplied the names and addresses of the men who had done young
Robinson's bidding in Central Park. Garrison jotted them down.
"I suppose you know that I am in the detective business myself," he added, as he finished the writing.