And Fairchild remembered too,—the English accent of the highwayman on the night of the Old Times Dance. Harry seemed to bounce on the prostrate form of his ancient enemy.
"Bill," he shouted, "I 've got you on your back. And I 've got a right to kill you. 'Onest I 'ave. And I 'll do it too—unless you start talking. I might as well kill you as not.—It's a penitentiary offense to 'it a man underground unless there 's a good reason. So I 'm ready to go the 'ole route. So tell it—tell it and be quick about it. Tell it—was n't you him?"
"Him—who?" the voice was weak, frightened.
"You know 'oo—the night of the Old Times dance! Didn't you pull that 'old-up?"
There was a long silence. Finally:
"Where's Rodaine?"
"In Center City." It was Anita who spoke. "He 's getting ready to run away and leave you two to stand the brunt of all this trouble."
Again a silence. And again Harry's voice:
"Tell it. Was n't you the man?"
Once more a long wait. Finally: