Proofs? Oh, yes, I
know you've manufactured proofs enough to convict him--if there weren't
stronger proofs to convict YOU."
"Convict ME!" Clayton's lower jaw hung loosely; but still he made
an effort at bluster. "You haven't a thing on me--not a thing--not a
thing."
Jimmie Dale smiled again--unpleasantly.
"You are quite wrong, Clayton. See--here." He took a sheet of paper from
the drawer of his desk.
Clayton reached for it quickly. "What is it?" he demanded.
Jimmie Dale drew it back out of reach.
"Just a minute," he said softly. "You remember, don't you, that in the
presence of Carruthers here, of myself, and of half a dozen reporters,
you stated that you had been alone with Metzer in his room at three
o'clock yesterday, and that it was you--alone--who found the body later
on at nine o'clock? Yes? I mention this simply to show that from your
own lips the evidence is complete that you had an OPPORTUNITY to commit
the crime. Now you may look at this, Clayton." He handed over the sheet
of paper.
Clayton took it, stared at it, turning it over from first one side to
the other. Then a sort of relief seemed to come to him and he gulped.
"Nothing but a damned piece of blank paper!" he mumbled.
Jimmie Dale reached over and took back the sheet.
"You're wrong again, Clayton," he said calmly. "It WAS quite blank
before I handed it to you--but not now.
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