“No, I didn’t,” said Patsy. “He only thought I did. The truth is, Mr. Gridley, I hated to let go of twenty bucks that had come so easy. So I hung on to the long green, instead, and stole the touring car from in front of a house.”
“I ordered you not to steal one,” cried Magill.
“I know it,” said Patsy, with a grin. “But I ain’t much on obeying orders. I reckoned a stolen car would serve as well for the job we had framed up, and since I was going into a thieving game, I thought I might as well swipe a car and be hung for a sheep as a lamb.”
“He’s lying!” Gridley said sternly. “See what else he has in his pockets. Search him from head to foot and—what’s that?”
Magill had quickly obeyed, thrusting his fingers into Patsy’s vest pockets. From one of them he drew out a crumpled scrap of paper, thoughtlessly put there by Patsy after having read it.
“It’s a leaf from a notebook,” he cried. “Here’s writing on it.”
“Writing on it?”
“Thundering guns! Whom are we up against?” Magill added, with a growl. “Listen, Gridley, listen!”
Magill straightened up with lips viciously twitching and read it aloud—the communication from Nick Carter to Patsy:
“‘Kate Crandall knows, but will not speak. Shadow her constantly until otherwise directed. Be governed by cir[Pg 35]cumstances. I’m off for home. Phone me there of any discoveries.’”