“Say, Dip — there’s a fellow named Flash calling you on the telephone. Says he’s got to speak to you, right away.”
Dip sought to rise, but sank back on the bench.
“You talk to him,” he said wearily; “tell him I’m sick—”
Cliff went to the other room and returned.
“He wants you to go up with Marty and Lance,” he said. “He wants you to start right away.”
“I can’t go,” said Dip weakly. “Can’t go, I tell you. Can’t get away from here—”
“I’ll put you in a cab,” responded Cliff. “The air will do you good. Tell me where the place is, so I can give the address to the driver.”
“Place where Marty is?” asked Dip. “It’s way uptown. Way up, by—”
Drowsiness had overcome the gangster. His words became an incoherent mumble. Cliff shook him by the shoulders. The man must talk! Harry Vincent’s life depended upon it. There was not an instant to lose. Dip Riker must complete that sentence!
But Cliff’s efforts were futile. The gangster lay dead to the world. The knock-out drops had worked too well!