Burke reflected for a moment, and then issued the final directions for the execution of his latest plot.
“When you get the buzzer from me, you have young Gilder and the Turner woman sent in. Then, after a while, you'll get another buzzer. When you hear that, come right in here, and tell me that the gang has squealed. I'll do the rest. Bring Garson here in just five minutes.... Tell Dan to come in.”
As the detective went out, the doorman promptly entered, and thereat Burke proceeded with the further instructions necessary to the carrying out of his scheme.
“Take the chairs out of the office, Dan,” he directed, “except mine and one other—that one!” He indicated a chair standing a little way from one end of his desk. “Now, have all the shades up.” He chuckled as he added: “That Turner woman saved you the trouble with one.”
As the doorman went out after having fulfilled these commands, the Inspector lighted the cigar which he had retained still in his mouth, and then seated himself in the chair that was set partly facing the windows opening on the corridor. He smiled with anticipatory triumph as he made sure that the whole length of the corridor with the barred doors of the cells was plainly visible to one sitting thus. With a final glance about to make certain that all was in readiness, he returned to his chair, and, when the door opened, he was, to all appearances, busily engaged in writing.
“Here's Garson, Chief,” Cassidy announced.
“Hello, Joe!” Burke exclaimed, with a seeming of careless friendliness, as the detective went out, and Garson stood motionless just within the door.
“Sit down, a minute, won't you?” the Inspector continued, affably. He did not look up from his writing as he spoke.
Garson's usually strong face was showing weak with fear. His chin, which was commonly very firm, moved a little from uneasy twitchings of his lips. His clear eyes were slightly clouded to a look of apprehension, as they roved the room furtively. He made no answer to the Inspector's greeting for a few moments, but remained standing without movement, poised alertly as if sensing some concealed peril. Finally, however, his anxiety found expression in words. His tone was pregnant with alarm, though he strove to make it merely complaining.
“Say, what am I arrested for?” he protested. “I ain't done anything.”