Then he himself stopped, as if conscious that he was saying too much.
Denton had collapsed in his chair. Harrison, also, seemed to have wilted. There was now practically no doubt of the men’s guilt. Hen Sylvester locked them up in the local jail until such time as he could arrange to transfer them to Bedford. Neither of the prisoners protested any further.
“Say, Joe, how did you know that investment bond was in his pocket?” asked the constable a little later.
“Because I put it there,” was the reply. “It was the one I took from the deacon. I thought I might have a use for it. It was just a little sleight-of-hand work, making it seem as if it came from his pocket.”
“Well, it—it was a good trick,” grudgingly admitted Mr. Blackford.
“Then you don’t think I’m guilty; do you?” asked Joe.
The deacon shook his head. He seemed quite ashamed of himself.
“If I was you, Deacon,” said Hen, in a whisper to the old man, “I’d sort of beg Joe’s pardon for suspecting him. You know he could make it hot for you if he wanted to.”
“How?”
“Sue you for false arrest, for humiliating him in a crowd, and all that. You’d better conciliate him.”