“You stool-pigeon! You did this for Burke!”
Griggs sought still to maintain his air of innocence, and he strove well, since he knew that he fought for his life against those whom he had outraged. As he spoke again, his tones were tremulous with sincerity—perhaps that tremulousness was born chiefly of fear, yet to the ear his words came stoutly enough for truth:
“I swear I didn't! I swear it!”
Mary regarded the protesting man with abhorrence. The perjured wretch shrank before the loathing in her eyes.
“You came to me yesterday,” she said, with more of restraint in her voice now, but still with inexorable rancor. “You came to me to explain this plan. And you came from him—from Burke!”
“I swear I was on the level. I was tipped off to the story by a pal,” Griggs declared, but at last the assurance was gone out of his voice. He felt the hostility of those about him.
Garson broke in ferociously.
“It's a frame-up!” he said. His tones came in a deadened roar of wrath.
On the instant, aware that further subterfuge could be of no avail, Griggs swaggered defiance.
“And what if it is true?” he drawled, with a resumption of his aristocratic manner, while his eyes swept the group balefully. He plucked the police whistle from his waistcoat-pocket, and raised it to his lips.