“Look, it is in our code. Phil can read it but he is the only one beside you. He is locked up in jail, and couldn't reach a typewriter. I got a message from him this afternoon that he wouldn't squeal. You know how he smuggled it out to me. Tell me how could any one know about the Monk and write this so?”
Taylor shook his head, speechless. As he turned his face toward the window Shirley observed the great drawn shadows under his squinting eyes. The sudden shock was telling on that weasel face. Taylor walked unsteadily toward the infernal machine, and he looked blankly toward Warren again. The other's blazing orbs were full upon him now. There was a frightful menace in their glittering depths as he spoke.
“Taylor, if I thought you had sold out I'd skin you alive right now!”
“Reg—Reg—you are my best friend. Don't say a thing like that.”
“Are you selling me for some purpose. Are you soft on that chicken? Has she blarneyed you into this?” demanded his chief, rising, unsteadily, but fierce in his suspicious tensity.
Taylor cowered, with imploring hands stretched out.
“Why, Reg, no one ever did for me what you've done. I'd die rather than sell you out, and there ain't a dame in the world that could make me soft on a real game like this.”
As Warren studied his white face there came a tinkle on the telephone.
“What's that? Who's that?” Warren turned and ran toward the instrument, still studying the face of his companion. It was evident that a seed of distrust was planted in his bosom. He answered nervously.
“Yes, yes! What do you want? Who's speaking?”