“In a road-house near Princeton—a place called Breen’s.”
“Was he alone?”
“No—there was a girl with him. They don’t know who she was; her handkerchief had ‘Lola’ on it.”
“Had she killed him?”
“No.”
“How do they know she hadn’t?”
“Because she was shot herself—in the back.”
“Then who killed him?”
“They——” He set his teeth, the sweat standing out on his forehead. “I’m not going to tell you any more about it now. Wait—wait——”
“If you don’t tell me, I’m going out through that door and walk until I get to New York. Who killed him?”