Ben Thurston glared for a moment at the vacant place where the black-robed figure had been seated. Then he turned round and, addressing Mrs. Darlington, fairly shouted:
“Where is Dick Willoughby? It was he who was wearing these damned clothes.” And he flung the garments on the rug before her.
“No swearing, please,” said Munson, tapping him on the shoulder.
“To hell! Who wouldn’t swear? Where is the man I’m after?”
“An innocent man,” exclaimed Merle, rising to her feet and proudly folding her arms.
“Looks like it—breaking jail and hiding in the hills,” sneered Thurston. “He is nothing but a murderer and an outlaw. And I’m going to get him, dead or alive.”
“Then catch him if you can,” cried Merle, pointing toward the door that opened on the portico.
Under the girl’s fearless gaze Ben Thurston wilted. Baffled, humiliated, speechless in his impotent rage, he allowed the sleuth to take him by the arm and hustle him from the scene.