Then, terror crystallized. His eyes were caught by a figure, the figure of Cassidy, advancing there in the corridor. And with the detective went a man whose gait was slinking, craven. A cell-door swung open, the prisoner stepped within, the door clanged to, the bolts shot into their sockets noisily.
Garson sat huddled, stricken—for he had recognized the victim thrust into the cell before his eyes.... It was Dacey, one of his own cronies in crime—Dacey, who, the night before, had seen him kill Eddie Griggs. There was something concretely sinister to Garson in this fact of Dacey's presence there in the cell.
Of a sudden, the forger cried out raucously:
“Say, Inspector, if you've got anything on me, I—I would——” The cry dropped into unintelligible mumblings.
Burke retained his manner of serene indifference to the other's agitation. Still, his pen hurried over the paper; and he did not trouble to look up as he expostulated, half-banteringly.
“Now, now! What's the matter with you, Joe? I told you that I wanted to ask you a few questions. That's all.”
Garson leaped to his feet again resolutely, then faltered, and ultimately fell back into the chair with a groan, as the Inspector went on speaking.
“Now, Joe, sit down, and keep still, I tell you, and let me get through with this job. It won't take me more than a minute more.”
But, after a moment, Garson's emotion forced hint to another appeal.
“Say, Inspector——” he began.