Cliff spoke as he was opening a pack of cigarettes. He offered one to the girl as he replied.
“You mean Killer Durgan?” he said, in an indifferent tone.
“Yes,” answered Madge, as she took a cigarette. “But he’s Francis J. now — they don’t call him Killer — but—”
She stopped and looked at Cliff. He detected a quizzical expression in her eyes as they passed by a street light.
“You mean he’s a dangerous sort of fellow,” said Cliff. “Is that the idea?”
“Yes,” said the girl. “He’s a brute! The only men that I know are like him, and he’s the worst of the lot” — there was bitterness in her voice — “so I’m putting you wise. If he knew I was out with you — well, he’d try to bump you off, that’s all!”
“He might try,” said Cliff quietly.
“You don’t know Durgan,” said Madge warningly. “I know lots of gunmen. They’re the only men I do know. I like them. They’re on the level. But they’re toughest when it comes to their molls.
“I shouldn’t be here with you tonight. But I’m sick of Durgan. I liked you the first time I saw you, big boy” — there was an appeal in her voice that made Cliff realize the admiration she held for him — “and I just had to make friends with you. It’s because I like you that I’m putting you wise” — her hand pressed more tightly against Cliff’s arm — “and I won’t think bad of you if you give me the gate now and for all. That’s how I feel!”
THE tone of the girl’s voice convinced Cliff of what he had suspected all along; that Madge had been waiting the one opportunity to make his acquaintance.