He paid no heed to Dennis but his dull, sunken eyes fastened themselves on McCarty and as he stared his sallow cheeks seemed to whiten.
“Hello, Porter. You remember me, I see,” the latter said briskly. “Me and my friend here want to have a little talk with you.”
“My name is not Porter; it’s Roberts,” the man replied stiffly with an evident effort. “You’ve made a mistake.”
“Not me, my lad!” McCarty spoke with easy assurance. “Inspector Druet got you too, the other day, but he didn’t bother you then because we didn’t know as much as we do now.”
“By God, you’ll never frame me again!” The man shrank back and a harsh, grating note came into his low tones. “You haven’t got anything on me—!”
“Haven’t, hey? How about the neighbor you’ve had next door for the past week or so?” McCarty inquired while Dennis held his breath. “Look here, Porter, I suppose you have been pretty well hounded and I don’t want to be hard on you but I’m going to get the truth!”
“‘Neighbor!’” The pseudo-Roberts moistened his dry lips. “I don’t know what you’re talking about—!”
“Maybe Mr. Parsons does, then; we’ll see him.” McCarty made as though to push his way past the cowering figure and the man threw out his hands.
“For God’s sake don’t, just when he’s giving me the only square chance I’ve had!” It was more an agonized whisper than speech. “I’m Porter all right but he knows that! He knows I got railroaded and you bulls wouldn’t let me go straight afterwards; that’s why he took me in. I don’t know what you’re trying to hang on me now but you’re not going to drag him into it! What do you want of me?”
McCarty glanced down the long hall which seemed almost bare in its lofty austerity, in spite of the richness of the carved paneling and quaint old furniture.