With a sudden, low exclamation, Jimmie Dale jumped for the table, and, snatching up the telephone, rattled the hook violently.
“Give me”—his voice came in well-simulated gasps, each like a man fighting for every word—“give me—police—headquarters! Quick! QUICK! I've—been—shot!”
The wounded man on the floor raised himself on his elbow.
“What are you doing?” he demanded in a startled way. “Are you mad! Thank your stars you were lucky enough to get out of this alive—and get out now, while you have the chance!”
Jimmie Dale pressed his hand firmly over the mouthpiece of the telephone.
“I'll go,” he said, with a cold smile, “when I've settled with you—for the murder of Henry LaSalle.”
“That man!” ejaculated the man scornfully, pointing to the form on the floor. “So that's your game! Going to try and cover your tracks! Why, you fool, I LIVE here! Do you think the police would imagine for an instant that I killed him?”
“I said—HENRY LASALLE,” said Jimmie Dale evenly.
The man came farther up on his elbow, a sudden look of fear in his face.
“What—what do you mean?” he cried hoarsely.