“Wonder what he did want to do with it?” mused Dick Prescott.

“There are any one of twenty ways in which the fellow might have used the stuff criminally,” replied the plain clothes man.  “Of course, for one thing, it could be used to blow open a safe with.  But safecracking, nowadays, is done by ordinary robbers, and they’re able to carry in a pocket or a satchel the small quantity of ‘soup’ that it takes to blow the lock of a safe door, or the door off the safe.”

After thinking a few minutes, Hemingway went to the telephone, calling up the chief of police at the latter’s home.  The plain clothes man stated the case, and suggested that the story be told to “The Blade” editor for publication in the morning issue.  Then, if anyone in town had any definite suspicion why so much nitroglycerine should be needed in that little city, he could communicate his suspicions or his facts to the police.

“The chief agrees to my plan,” nodded Hemingway, leaving the ’phone.  “Me for ‘The Blade’ office.”

“See here,” begged Dick, earnestly, “if there’s to be a good newspaper story in this, please let me turn it over to Len Spencer.  He’s one of our best newspaper men.  He’ll write a corking good story about this business—–­and, besides, I’m under some personal obligations to him.”

“So I’ve heard,” replied the plain clothes man, with a twinkle in his eyes.  Hemingway heard a good deal in his saunterings about Gridley.  He had picked up the yarn about Dick & Co., Len Spencer and the “dead ones.”

“So that ‘The Blade’ gets it, I don’t care who writes the story,” replied the policeman, good-humoredly.

Dick swiftly called up “The Morning Blade’ office.  Spencer was there, and came to the telephone.

“How’s news tonight?” asked Prescott, after naming himself.

“Duller than a lecture,” rejoined Len.

“Would you like a hot one for the first page?” pursued Dick.

“Would I?  Would a cat lap milk, or a dog run when he had a can tied to his tail?  But don’t string me, Dick.  There’s an absolute zero on news tonight.”

“Then you stay right where you are for two or three minutes,” Dick begged his reporter friend.  “Officer Hemingway and some others are coming down to see you.  You’ll want to save three or four columns, I guess.”

“Oh, now, see here, Dick-----” came Reporter Spencer’s voice,
in expostulation.

“Straight goods,” Dick assured him.  “When I say that I mean it.  And, this time, I not only mean it, but know it.  Wait!  We’ll be right down to your office.”

Nor did it take Len Spencer long to realize that he had in hand the big news sensation of the hour for the people of Gridley.

Everyone in Gridley either wondered or shivered the next morning at breakfast table.

Four pounds of nitroglycerine are enough to work fearful havoc and mischief.

CHAPTER XVIII