“You will find it hard to prove this,” sneered Stark. “Mr. Jennings, I demand my liberty. If you have any humanity you will not keep me from the bedside of my dying mother.” “I admire your audacity, Mr. Stark,” observed the manufacturer, quietly. “Don’t suppose for a moment that I give the least credit to your statements.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Gibbon. “I’m ready to accept the consequences of my act, but I don’t want that scoundrel and traitor to go free.”
“You can’t prove anything against me,” said Stark, doggedly, “unless you accept the word of a self-confessed burglar, who is angry with me because I would not join him.”
“All these protestations it would be better for you to keep till your trial begins, Mr. Stark,” said the manufacturer. “However, I think it only fair to tell you that I am better informed about you and your conspiracy than you imagine. Will you tell me where you were at eleven o’clock last evening?”
“I was in my room at the hotel—no, I was taking a walk. I had received news of my mother’s illness, and I was so much disturbed and grieved that I could not remain indoors.”
“You were seen to enter the office of this factory with Mr. Gibbon, and after ten minutes came out with the tin box under your arm.”
“Who saw me?” demanded Stark, uneasily.
Carl Crawford came forward and answered this question.
“I did!” he said.
“A likely story! You were in bed and asleep.”