"Still, it is as well this way as another. I should never have served the time for embezzlement. A free life is a fine thing. I suspect that death, perhaps, is even finer."
He handed the last page to Braceway, leaned back in his chair, put up his arms and yawned. The glance with which he swept the faces of those before him was arrogant. It had a sinister audacity.
"The confession's complete," Braceway told Greenleaf, clipping his words short. "Take him away. No—wait!" He pulled a pen from his pocket and turned to the prisoner.
"Oh, the signature," Bristow said coolly. "I forgot that."
He took the typewritten pages roughly from Fulton, and in a bold, free hand wrote at the bottom of each: "Thomas F. Splain."
"I'm ready," he announced, rising from his chair so that he jostled Fulton unnecessarily.
The old man, his self-control broken at last, struck him with open hand full in the face. His fingers left three red stripes across the murderer's white cheek.
Before Braceway could interfere, Bristow checked his impulse to strike back and gave Fulton a long, level look.
"You're welcome to it," he said finally; "welcome, old man. I guess I still owe you something, at that."
"Put the cuffs on him," ordered Greenleaf.