“If you attempt any violence——” he began in a voice that trembled.
“There isn’t going to be any violence unless you make it necessary,” Joe interrupted. “Though I ought to give you another thrashing for that trap you laid for me the other night.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” growled Fleming, sullenly.
“Oh, yes you do. But we’ll let that go. I came here this morning to tell you that we’ve identified you as the driver of the car that ran this man down on the Merrick Road and then went on without stopping to see how badly he was hurt.”
The accusation was so sudden, so positive, so direct, that, as Joe had hoped, it took Fleming fairly off his feet. He stood staring wildly at the group, his face an image of guilt. Then he tried to rally.
“It’s false!” he shouted. “I didn’t do anything of the kind.”
“No use of lying, Fleming,” said Joe, coldly. “We’ve got the goods on you.”
“He’s the man!” cried Louis Anderson, excitedly. “He had a cap on then, and his face was red, as though he was drunk, but he’s the same man. I could swear to him.”
“You’re crazy,” snarled Fleming. “I wasn’t on Long Island that day.”
“Didn’t you have dinner at the Long Beach Hotel that day, eh?” asked Joe.