“You're on!” he agreed.
“Then, here goes!” Garson cried; and he looked expectantly toward the stenographer.
The strain of it all was sapping the will of the girl, who saw the man she so greatly esteemed for his service to her and his devotion about to condemn himself to death. She grew half-hysterical. Her words came confusedly:
“No, Joe! No, no, no!”
Again, Garson shook his head in absolute refusal of her plea.
“There's no other way out,” he declared, wearily. “I'm going through with it.” He straightened a little, and again looked at the stenographer. His voice came quietly, without any tremulousnesss.
“My name is Joe Garson.”
“Alias?” Burke suggested.
“Alias nothing!” came the sharp retort. “Garson's my monaker. I shot English Eddie, because he was a skunk, and a stool-pigeon, and he got just what was coming to him.” Vituperation beyond the mere words beat in his voice now.
Burke twisted uneasily in his chair.