“It’s no good,” he said in a low tone.  “Don’t do that, Mrs. Matthews, I’ve got to do my duty.”  He leaned a little toward the chair.  “It’s dead to rights, Sammy.  You might as well make a clean breast of it.  It was up to you and Al Gregor to see that the plate was destroyed.  It wasn’t destroyed; instead, it shows up in the hands of a gang of counterfeiters that I’ve been watching for months.  Furthermore, I’ve got the plate itself.  And finally, though I haven’t placed him under arrest yet for fear you might hear of it before I wanted you to and make a get-away, I’ve got Al Gregor where I can put my hands on him, and I’ve got his confession that you and he worked the game between you to get that plate out of the bureau and dispose of it to the gang.”

“Oh, my God!”—­it came in a wild cry from the sick man, and in a desperate, lurching way he struggled up to his feet.  “Al Gregor said that?  Then—­then I’m done!” He clutched at his temples.  “But it’s not true—­it’s not true!  If the plate was stolen, and it must have been stolen, or that note wouldn’t have been found, it was Al Gregor who stole it—­I didn’t, I tell you!  I knew nothing of it, except that he and I were responsible for it and—­and I left it to him—­that’s the only way I’m to blame.  He’s caught, and he’s trying to get out of it with a light sentence by pretending to turn State’s evidence, but—­but I’ll fight him—­he can’t prove it—­it’s only his word against mine, and—­”

The other shook his head again.

“It’s no good, Sammy,” he said, a touch of sternness back in his tones again.  “I told you it was open and shut.  It’s not only Al Gregor.  One of the gang got weak knees when I got him where I wanted him the other night, and he swears that you are the one who delivered the plate to them.  Between him and Gregor and what I know myself, I’ve got evidence enough for any jury against every one of the rest of you.”

Horror, fear, helplessness seemed to mingle in the sick man’s staring eyes, and he swayed unsteadily upon his feet.

“I’m innocent!” he screamed out.  “But I’m caught, I’m caught in a net, and I can’t get out—­they lied to you—­but no one will believe it any more than you do and—­and it means twenty years for me—­oh, God!—­twenty years, and—­” His hands went wriggling to his temples again, and he toppled back in a faint into the chair.

“You’ve killed him!  You’ve killed my boy!” the old lady shrieked out piteously, and flung herself toward the senseless figure.

The man jumped for the table across the room, on which was a row of bottles, snatched one up, drew the cork, smelled it, and ran back with the bottle.  He poured a little of the contents into his cupped hand, held it under young Matthews’ nostrils, and pushed the bottle into Mrs. Matthews’ hands.

“Bathe his forehead with this, Mrs. Matthews,” he directed reassuringly.  “He’ll be all right again in a moment.  There, see—­he’s coming around now.”