"How could he slip away—drugged—after being knocked out and unconscious?" He leaned forward in his chair, his white fist clenched on the table. "Somebody helped him——"
"It's not possible."
"Why not? How do ye know? Ye were all so frightened of the police that ye took to yer heels without a look around."
"But nobody but Pochard's crowd knew about the old passage to the river——"
"Then somebody in Pochard's crowd did the helping."
"It can't be. They're all in on it."
Quinlevin shrugged. "Perhaps, but I'll be looking into that phase of the question myself."
"Go ahead. I wish you luck. But how is that going to help?"
"It'll find Jim Horton. And that's the only matter I'm concerned about."
There was a pause, and another voice broke the silence.