“You've got us bang right!” sighed Big Head.
Outside they found Cohen, also of the Central Office, with the ruffles on the Ghost.
“That's only a throw-off,” sneered Sammy, pointing to the bracelets.
The Ghost began to whine. The loose lips became looser than ever, the drooping lids drooped lower still.
“W'y, Sammy,” he remonstrated weepingly, “youse don't t'ink I'd go an' give youse up!”
“That's all right,” retorted Sammy, with sullen emphasis. “Youse'll get yours, Ghost.”
Had the Ghost been wise he would have remained in the Tombs; it was his best chance. But the Ghost was-not wise. Within the week he was walking the streets, and trying to explain a freedom which so sharply contrasted with the caged condition of Big Head and Sammy Hart. Gangland turned its back on him; his explanations were not received. And, sluggish and thick as he was, Gangland made him feel it.
It was black night in University Place. The Ghost was gumshoeing his way towards the Bridge Saloon. A taxicab came slowly crabbing along the curb. It stopped; a quick figure slipped out and, muzzle on the very spot, put a bullet through the base of the Ghost's brain.
The quick figure leaped back into the cab. The door slammed, and the cab dashed off into the darkness at racing speed.
In that splinter of time required to start the cab you might have seen—had you been near enough—two white small hands clutch with a kind of rapturous acceptance at the quick figure, as it sprang into the cab, and heard the eager voice of a woman saying “Promise for promise, and word for word! Who wouldn't give soul and body for th' death of a snitch?—for a snake that will bite no more?”