"I said, have you got anything to say?" repeated the impatient commissioner.
"I hain't got nothin' t' say—only—only——" he began, in a voice that split and ruptured in crowding past the lump that choked him. He turned his gray eyes and fixed them upon the bloated, triumphant visage of Burton.
"Only," he struggled on, quaveringly, as he lifted his two cuffed hands and leveled them at the revenuer, "he kilt my Maw—he ded—an' he kilt my pap, he ded—an'—an'——"
"He kilt my maw—he ded—an' he kilt my pap."
Burton grabbed one shoulder with a snort, the deputy the other, and they led him out.
As the door closed, the blonde typist resumed her machine, and her chilly eyes were moist. She glanced covertly at the commissioner. His downward drawn mouth was ajar, and he was gazing blankly at a familiar ink spot on his desk.