Again that wave of dread which betokens the quailing heart of the detected felon swept over the man's features, but he only swore again, and protested that they had no right to torture him.
McCulloch saw that he had to deal with a hardened criminal, from whom no conscience stricken confession would be forthcoming. He gave the lamp to Curtis, stooped, and lifted the prisoner out on to the ground. Untying the rope, except at the man's ankles, he brought the listless hands in front, and placed a pair of handcuffs on the wrists.
"Now," he said, "if you have any sense left, you'll keep quiet and enjoy the ride back to New York."
"Why am I arrested? I have a right to know?" The words were yelped at him rather than spoken.
"All in good time, Anatole. You'll have everything explained to you fair and square."
"That is not my name. That's a Frenchman's name."
"It fitted you all right in 27th Street a few hours ago."
"I was not there. I can prove it."
"Of course you can. You'd be a poor sort of crook if you couldn't. But what's this?" the roundsman had found some letters and a pocketbook in an inner pocket of the chauffeur's closely buttoned jacket—"M. Anatole Labergerie, care of Morris Siegelman, saloon-keeper, East Broadway, N. Y.," he said. "You know someone named Anatole, anyhow, so we are warm, as the kids say," he went on sarcastically.
"I say nothing. I admit nothing. I demand the presence of a lawyer," was the defiant reply.