His young assistant was on guard.
“Brockey,” said the detective, as he stood in front of the prisoner, “have you spent all the money that Darwin gave you?”
“What’s that to you?” Brockey snarled, being in an ugly mood.
And no wonder!
Who could blame him?
Brockey was by no means a stoic or a philosopher. His was a nature which would brood on troubles.
There was bitter hatred and malice in every flash of his eye. No love there, no appreciation of the detective’s ability!
Carter gazed down into that dark countenance. He read the man’s thoughts.
“If you have any of that money left,” Carter replied, in a serious tone, “some of it may be bills which were stolen from the murdered man.
“I have the numbers of those bills in my possession.”