“Just exactly what I say,” replied Jimmie Dale curtly.  “No more, no less.  But first, not to be too abrupt, I want to join with the newspapers in congratulating you on the remarkable—­shall I call it celerity, or acumen?—­with which you solved the mystery of Metzer’s death, and placed the murderer behind the bars.  It is really remarkable, inspector, so remarkable, in fact, that it’s almost—­suspicious.  Don’t you think so?  No?  Well, that’s what Mr. Carruthers was good enough to bring you up here to talk over—­in an intimate and confidential way, you know.”

Inspector Clayton surged up from his chair to his feet, his fists clenched, the red sweeping over his face—­and then he shook one fist at Carruthers.

“So that’s your game, is it!” he stormed.  “Trying to crawl out of that twenty-five thousand reward, eh?  And as for you”—­he turned on Jimmie Dale—­“you’ve rigged up a nice little plant between you, eh?  Well, it won’t work—­and I’ll make you squirm for this, both of you, damn you, before I’m through!” He glared from one to the other for a moment—­then swung on his heel.  “Good-afternoon, gentlemen,” he sneered, as he started for the door.

He was halfway across the room before Jimmie Dale spoke.

“Clayton!”

Clayton turned.  Jimmie Dale was still leaning over the desk, but now one elbow was propped upon it, and in the most casual way a revolver covered Inspector Clayton.

“If you attempt to leave this room,” said Jimmie Dale, without raising his voice, “I assure you that I shall fire with as little compunction as though I were aiming at a mad dog—­and I apologise to all mad dogs for coupling your name with them.”  His voice rang suddenly cold.  “Come back here, and sit down in that chair!”

The colour ebbed slowly from Clayton’s face.  He hesitated—­then sullenly retraced his steps; hesitated again as he reached the chair, and finally sat down.

“What—­what d’ye mean by this?” he stammered, trying to bluster.

“Just this,” said Jimmie Dale.  “That I accuse you of the murder of Jake Metzer—­it was you who murdered Metzer.”

“Good God!” burst suddenly from Carruthers.

“You lie!” yelled Clayton—­and again he surged up from his chair.

“That is what Stace Morse said,” said Jimmie Dale coolly.  “Sit down!”

Then Clayton tried to laugh.  “You’re—­you’re having a joke, ain’t you?  It was Stace—­I can prove it.  Come down to headquarters, and I can prove it.  I got the goods on him all the way.  I tell you”—­his voice rose shrilly—­“it was Stace Morse.”