A fit of coughing prevented the miser from proceeding farther just then. Burt raised the man higher in the bed, that he might breathe more freely. Monte did not even thank him.
“Don’t you think you had better see a minister?” asked Burt.
Murphy laughed.
“I’m not going to die, I tell you,” he said.
“Won’t you tell me where I can find Bull Blair?”
“No.”
“Then I shall find him without your help,” said Burt.
“In a day or two I shall find him myself, and I shall also settle my little account with Mike Quick.”
The old “fence” seemed to be seized with a sudden chill. He tried to speak, but was unable. Then he clutched his own throat wildly. The whisky flask had fallen on the bed, and its contents ran from it.
Monte Murphy was a corpse! Burt caught hold of the man’s wrist. He found that the pulse had ceased to beat. Mike Quick was a murderer.