“Yes. Gabriel killed him.”
Jimmy bowed his head.
“It is retribution,” he said slowly. “The same thing might have happened to me.”
Shirley now drew a roll of bills from her purse—the five hundred dollars she had picked up in her father’s bedroom when it fell from Uncle Frank’s pocket. She had brought it with her unconsciously.
She threw the roll of money on the table, and turned to Jones scornfully.
“There,” she said, “is your blood money. Come, Jimmy.”
Slowly Jimmy rose to his feet.
But as the lad started to follow Shirley through the door, Jones sprang forward.
“No you don’t,” he said. “I have had enough of this foolishness.” He stepped back quickly, and from his hip pocket produced a revolver.
“Now,” he said, “you sit down in this chair, or I’ll use this.”