“Dat’s yer cue, Meighan,” called Larry the Bat calmly. “Come out an’ take a look at him!”
A ghastly pallor spreading over his face, staring like a demented man, as Meighan, rising from behind the lounging chair, advanced toward the table, Virat huddled back in his seat.
“Know him?” inquired Larry the Bat.
The detective bent sharply forward.
“My god!” he exclaimed. “It’s—no, it can’t—”
“Mabbe,” murmured Larry the Bat, “youse’d know him better when he ain’t dolled up.” He swept the glasses from Virat’s nose, and wrenched away the black moustache and goatee.
“Kenleigh!” gasped Meighan.
“Mabbe,” said Larry the Bat, with a twisted grin, “dere’s somethin’ he may have fergotten ter wise youse up on, but he didn’t mean ter hide nothin’ in his confession—did youse, Frenchy? An’ mabbe dere’s one or two other things in de years he’s been playin’ Kenleigh dat he’ll tell youse about, if youse ask him—nice and pleasant-like!”
Larry the Bat edged around the table, and, covering Meighan with his revolver, backed to the door.
“Well, so long, Meighan!” he said softly, from the threshold. “T’ink of me when dey pins de medal on yer breast fer dis!”