“I?” Johnny lost a stroke.
“Luck no end!” Drew rumbled. “Remember the jimmy bar? The invisible footprint? The shavings? Sure you do. They were red hot clues that led us straight to the spot.”
“Then—then it was Angelo, the—the flower shop keeper?” Johnny lost two strokes.
“It was Angelo.”
For a time after that there was silence. This silence was broken by Johnny. His voice was husky. “I only feel bad for the boy, young Angelo. He is a fine young chap. And he has had everything—big car, speed boat—going to college. Everything. And now—”
“Now his father is going to be broke. We are here to arrange all that. We must not fail. To-night Angelo Piccalo is rich. He believes he is safe, that his riches are safe. To-morrow night at this hour, if our plans work out, he will be broke, broke and in prison.
“Too many times—” Drew’s voice was tense with pent-up emotion. “Too many times we go out and get a rich crook and he is able to buy his freedom, by corrupting a judge or a jury with the very money he stole from honest men. This time there shall be no chance for this; not a chance. We—
“Look!” His voice suddenly fell to a hoarse whisper. “Look! Over yonder is the light of a camp fire. Must be their camp, the kidnapers’ camp.
“Here!” Drew bent over, then straightened up to thrust a thing of cold steel into Johnny’s hand. “Put this in your pocket. And this.”
Johnny obeyed.