That's to be on Friday. But
the other thing--well, they all cleared away but two. They were the two
that wanted to have it out with me. They stayed behind. There was I
snoring like a locomotive, but my ears open all right.
"Well, they give the thing away. One of 'em had just come from Felix
Marchand and he was full of it. What was it? Why, the second night of
the strike your new bridge over the river was to be blown up.
Marchand was to give these two toughs three hundred dollars each for
doing it."
"Blown up with what?" Ingolby asked sharply.
"Dynamite."
"Where would they get it?"
"Some left from blasting below the mills."
"All right! Go on."
"There wasn't much more. Old Barbazon, the landlord, come in and they
quit talking about it; but they said enough to send 'em to gaol for ten
years."
Ingolby blinked at Jowett reflectively, and his mouth gave a twist that
lent to his face an almost droll look.
"What good would it do if they got ten years--or one year, if the bridge
was blown up? If they got skinned alive, and if Marchand was handed over
to a barnful of hungry rats to be gnawed to death, it wouldn't help.
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