"By papers found in his desk—records of a real-estate business you and he'd been in some years ago at Syracuse."
"That's the man," said Ford, between his hiccuppy catches of breath, "and he's dead?"
"Dead as Julius Cæsar." O'Mally leaned forward, his voice dropping, "You knew he was the chap that attacked you?"
Ford, his head drooped, his shoulders hunched up like an old woman's, nodded:
"Yes, I lied when I said he was a stranger to me."
"Why did you do that?" asked Babbitts.
It was just what you might know he'd ask. One of the cutest things about Himself is that he never can understand why anyone, no matter what the provocation, has to lie.
Ford didn't answer and O'Mally, giving his chair a hitch nearer to the bed, said kind and persuasive:
"Say, Ford, you'd better tell us all you know. We got the papers, and most of the information. The man's dead. Clean it up and we'll let it drop."
Without raising his head Ford said, low and sort of sullen: