Taylor had owed his safety ere this to rapid thinking.
“Then you’re under arrest!” he cried.
“Oh, no I’m not,” Denby rejoined, turning to the startled men. “Your chief caught me with the goods and I paid him thirty thousand dollars to square it.”
Taylor came at him with upraised fist. “Why, you—” he roared, “I’ll—”
Denby seized the clenched fist and thrust it aside. “You won’t,” he said calmly; “you’re only a bully after all, Taylor. You couldn’t graft on your own—you had to drag a girl into it, and you’ve made me do some pretty rotten things to-night to land you. I’ve had to make that girl suffer, but you’ll pay for it. I’ve got you now, and you’re under arrest.”
“Aw, quit your bluffing,” Taylor jeered; “you can’t arrest me, Denby.”
“The man who’ll arrest you is named Jones,” Denby remarked.
“Who the hell is he?” Taylor cried.
“Ah, yes,” Denby admitted. “I forgot that you hadn’t met him officially and that the boys don’t know who he is either. Here’s my commission.” Gibbs stared at the document ravenously. “And that’s my photograph,” Denby added. “A pretty good likeness it’s usually considered.”
Duncan was now at his comrade’s side, poring over it. “It sure is,” he agreed.