“And we don’t want that to happen,” thought the young reporter. “It would be bad all around. If I could only get him arrested on some trivial charge which would hold him until Mr. Bentfield or some bank official could get here, that would answer. Then they could take the responsibility.
“By Jove, I have it. I’ll pay him back for what he did to Miss Mason in the subway. I’ll come back here to-morrow, and wait for him to come out of that boarding-house. Then I’ll walk past, and pretend that he collided with me. I’ll accuse him of doing it on purpose. I’ll get into a fight with him if necessary, and raise such a row that the police will come. Then I’ll make a charge of assault and battery against him. That will be sufficient on which to hold him. I’ll wire Mr. Bentfield right away, to come to Chicago on the first train.”
Now that he had formed a plan of action Larry felt better satisfied. He hurried to his hotel, and that morning he began his vigil at the boarding-house. He reasoned that Witherby might come out at any time, and he wanted to be ready for him.
He had not been waiting more than an hour before a quick glance up the street, from the corner where he had been standing, as though waiting for a car, showed him the man he wanted coming down the steps.
Witherby was standing with his back toward our hero, and so did not see him at first. Larry, hurrying up, reached the foot of the steps just as the bank clerk came down them. By cleverly lurching forward, Larry managed to make it seem as if Witherby had collided with him. The force of the impact was more than Larry had counted on, and Witherby went down with an exclamation of anger.
Larry decided to act at once. Before the bank clerk could get up the reporter seized him by the collar, exclaiming:
“What do you mean by running into me? I believe you tried to pick my pocket! I shall have you arrested!”
Larry assumed a virtuous indignation. Witherby, taken quickly by surprise, glanced up, and a look of amazement came over his face at the sight of Larry. The bank clerk had on no disguise, unless a “loud” checked suit, and a polka-dot velvet vest, of the kind sometimes worn by theatrical men, could be so called. His hat had rolled some distance away on the sidewalk.
“What! You here, Dexter?” cried Witherby. “What does this mean? Let go of me! Let go of me at once!”
But Larry had no such intention. A glance down the street showed him an officer approaching, and, still keeping hold of Witherby’s collar with one hand, with the other Larry beckoned for the club-swinging policeman to hasten.