There was a long silence. Hatch was listening with all the multitudinous ears of a good reporter.
"Now the plate," Mr. Randolph suggested again impatiently. "Do you deny that you got it?"
"I do," replied Dick firmly.
"I was afraid you would, and, believe me, Mr. Herbert, such a course is a mistaken one," said Mr. Randolph. "I will give you twenty-four hours to change your mind. If, at the end of that time, you see fit to return the plate, I shall drop the matter and use my influence to have the police do so. If the plate is not returned I shall be compelled to turn over all the facts to the police with your name."
"Is that all?" Dick demanded suddenly.
"Yes, I believe so."
"Then get out of here before I——" Dick started forward, then dropped back into a chair.
Mr. Randolph drew on his gloves and went out, closing the door behind him.
For a long time Dick sat there, seemingly oblivious of Hatch's presence, supporting his head with his left hand, while the right hung down loosely beside him. Hatch was inclined to be sympathetic, for, strange as it may seem, some reporters have even the human quality of sympathy—although there are persons who will not believe it.
"Is there anything I can do?" Hatch asked at last. "Anything you want to say?"