The brutal assurance of the man in thus referring to things that were sacred, moved Dick to wrath.
“Don't you interfere,” he said. His words were spoken softly, but tensely.
Nevertheless, Burke held to the topic, but an indefinable change in his manner rendered it less offensive to the young man.
“Interfere! Huh!” he ejaculated, grinning broadly. “Why, that's what I'm paid to do. Listen to me, son. The minute you begin mixing up with crooks, you ain't in a position to give orders to any one. The crooks have got no rights in the eyes of the police. Just remember that.”
The Inspector spoke the simple truth as he knew it from years of experience. The theory of the law is that a presumption of innocence exists until the accused is proven guilty. But the police are out of sympathy with such finical methods. With them, the crook is presumed guilty at the outset of whatever may be charged against him. If need be, there will be proof a-plenty against him—of the sort that the underworld knows to its sorrow.
But Dick was not listening. His thoughts were again wholly with the woman he loved, who, as the Inspector declared, had fled from him.
“Where's she gone in Chicago?”
Burke answered in his usual gruff fashion, but with a note of kindliness that was not without its effect on Dick.
“I'm no mind-reader,” he said. “But she's a swell little girl, all right. I've got to hand it to her for that. So, she'll probably stop at the Blackstone—that is, until the Chicago police are tipped off that she is in town.”
Of a sudden, the face of the young man took on a totally different expression. Where before had been anger, now was a vivid eagerness. He went close to the Inspector, and spoke with intense seriousness.