"God! the Cracksman," he ejaculated, and his head fell forward upon his breast.
"Yes, and now—just Cleek, of Scotland Yard," came the reply.
"Cleek!" exclaimed the Coroner in amazement, and the name echoed from every mouth in that crowded room.
"Just Cleek," was the reply.
Suddenly Blake's face underwent a change.
"I don't care who you are, blarst yer! I haven't done nothing but get up as an Indian, and there's nothing criminal in that!"
"No, my friend," said Cleek, quietly. "But there is in murder and when it comes to killing your own brother—what's that? Oh, yes, it is. I know the dead man now: Sam Blake, tipster and member of the Pentacle Club. And you—you are James Blake, head of the Club, the biggest gang of jewel thieves in the world!"
"It's a lie!" shrieked the man. "I am not. I did not kill him!"
"You did," flung back Cleek. "You killed him with a little white pellet of prussic acid. I daresay—yes—they are——" His deft fingers felt in one of the resisting man's pockets.