He took his place at the corner which commanded the entrance to the Maitland works. “Here I shall wait, abstractedly gazing at the passers-by, until the unhappy Sam makes his appearance,” mused Vic to himself. “And by the powers, here Sam is now.”
From among the employees as they poured from the gate Victor pounced upon his victim and bore him away down a side street.
“Sam,” he said, “it may be you are about to die, so tell me the truth. I hate to take your young life.” Sam grinned at his captor, unafraid. “Cast your mind back to the occasion of the hockey dance. You remember that?”
“You bet I do, Mister. I made a dollar that night.”
“Ah! A dollar. Yes, you did, for delivering a note given you by Captain Jack Maitland,” hissed Vic, gripping his arm.
“Huh-huh,” said Sam. “Look out, Mister, that's me.”
“Villain!” cried Vic. “Boy, I mean. Now, Sam, did you deliver that note?”
“Of course I did. Didn't Captain Jack give me a dollar for it? I didn't want his dollar.”
“The last question, Sam,” said Vic solemnly, “to whom did you deliver the note?”
“To that chap, the son of the storekeeper.”