“Very well,” he said quietly, addressing the sleuth. “I’ll give you no trouble, Sharkey. Let us get away from here as quickly as possible.”
Just then Lieutenant Munson came hurriedly onto the scene. For a moment he looked thunderstruck when he saw the handcuffs around Dick’s wrists.
“Great Scott, Dick! What’s the meaning of this?” Then without waiting for a reply he turned to the sleuth.
“I’ve just heard about young Thurston’s death, but you’re surely not going to mix up Dick Willoughby’s name with it, Mr. Sharkey? You must know that he would have nothing to do with such a cowardly crime.”
“He can prove all that at the proper time and place,” was the cool, determined rejoinder.
“Don’t interfere, Munson,” interposed Dick. “Mr. Sharkey considers that he is doing his duty. That’s an end to all argument. I’ll have no difficulty in obtaining my release once we get to Bakersfield.”
“And the lieutenant can come along with us if he likes,” observed the sleuth, conciliated by his prisoner’s sensible view of things. “As Mr. Willoughby’s best friend, you can see that everything’s done right, Mr. Munson.”
“But why these handcuffs?”
“I know my own business,” replied the sleuth, with returning severity, as he touched the constable’s star on his breast. “And as a soldier you should know the wisdom of letting it go at that, sir.”
Munson turned to Mr. Thurston. All through the colloquy the ranch-owner had spoken not a word. He had dropped onto the bench beside the still swathed body of his son, and was sitting there with bowed head and stolidly fixed eyes.