good against him. Without them, anything you could say would be an idle tale.”
“That is not the point, believe me, Mr. Forsyth,” the shrill voice quavered almost pleadingly. “The contents of that package took three of my most skilled colleagues months to prepare. They are proud of their work—love those forged bonds as if they were their children. To their pride in their work I should owe my life, if you would give them back to me.”
Forsyth could hardly believe his ears. Could this tremulous dotard be the redoubtable master of crime whom he and his uncle had been fighting throughout the last crowded week? “I really don’t see how your not particularly valuable life can depend on your possession of a lot of bogus bonds,” he said, with genuine curiosity. The appeal to his pity filled him with vague uneasiness, the alleged reason for it being so utterly absurd. Yet Ziegler was ready with an explanation, more or less plausible.
“My associates will kill me for being duped out of their handiwork,” he answered, glancing fearfully to the garden entrance. “They would perhaps pardon the miscarriage of the main
[295]
