“Want to go back for another stretch?” The Inspector's voice was freighted with suggestions of disasters to come, which were well understood by the cringing wretch before him.
The thief shuddered, and his face, already pallid from the prison lack of sunlight like some noxious growth of a cellar, became livid. His words came in a muffled moan of fear.
“God, no!”
Burke left a little interval of silence then in which the thieves might tremble over the prospect suggested by his words, but always he maintained his steady, relentless glare on the cowed creatures. It was a familiar warfare with him. Yet, in this instance, he was destined to failure, for the men were of a type different from that of English Eddie, who was lying dead as the meet reward for treachery to his fellows.... When, at last, his question issued from the close-shut lips, it came like the crack of a gun.
“Who shot Griggs?”
The reply was a chorus from the two:
“I don't know—honest, I don't!”
In his eagerness, Chicago Red moved toward his questioner—unwisely.
“Honest to Gawd, I don't know nothin' about it!”
The Inspector's fist shot out toward Chicago Red's jaw. The impact was enough. The thief went to his knees under the blow.