Not a muscle of Jimmie Dale’s face moved. He allowed another gulp of brandy to gurgle noisily down his throat. The cool, alert, keen brain was at work. It was certain that the Wolf had at no time that night recognised him as Smarlinghue. The Wolf, therefore, at worst, could be no more than gambling on the chance that the object of the chase had taken refuge here in the tenement, and, naturally enough then, was beginning his investigation with the ground floor room. And yet, why then had the Wolf, deliberately in that case, sent his pack off on a false scent? In the mirror he could see that huge jaw outthrust, the black eyes narrowed, an ugly leer on the working face—and a revolver in the Wolf’s hand that held a bead on his, Jimmie Dale’s, head.
It was “Smarlinghue,” the wretched, nervous, drug-wrecked creature that turned around—and, as though startled at the sight of the other, almost let the bottle fall from his hand.
“So it was you—eh—Smarlinghue! Curse you!” snarled the Wolf. “Come out here, and stand in the centre of the room!”
Smarlinghue cringed. He put down the bottle with a trembling hand, and slouched forward.
“I ain’t done nothing!” he whined.
“No, you ain’t done a thing—except crack a box and pinch about ten thousand dollars’ worth of sparklers!” The Wolf’s face, if possible, was more ugly in its threat than before.
Smarlinghue, in a sort of stupefied amazement, stared around the room—as though he expected to see a gleaming heap of diamonds leap into sight somewhere before him. He shook his head helplessly.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mumbled. “I—I heard a row outside there a little while ago. Maybe that’s it.”
“Yes—mabbe it is!” sneered the Wolf viciously. “So you don’t know anything about it—eh? You’ve got a hell of a good memory, haven’t you! You don’t know anything about the Spider’s safe, or about a little fight in the Spider’s room, or about jumping out of the window, and beating it for here with the gang after you—no, you don’t! You never heard of it before—of course, you didn’t!”
Smarlinghue began to wring his hands nervously one over the other. He shook his head helplessly again.