“How did you get in here?” asked the latter.
“I suppose that it was in the same way that you got in.”
“Is it true that Young is dead?”
“Yes; he was shot by a newspaper man, who was a friend of Nick Carter’s, and he clubbed me with his stick until I am black and blue all over.”
“Well, I am glad that he was killed, as there was not a man in the gang that did not fear him. Hall, do you know that you and I are in a bad hole? I am good for thirty years, at least, and I think that they will send you up for a good, long term. I am going to talk to the inspector and Mr. Carter, and tell them what I know.”
“Then you are going to squeal?”
“Yes; because they will let up on me, and, besides, Weeden does not care for any of us. All he wants to do is to pose as a man of respectability one minute and the next he wants to go around looking like somebody else. I tell you that I am tired of the whole business. I have not had anything to do with the Astoria horror, but I am going to tell them all I know about the crimes.”
“I will talk to you about the terms before you begin, so that there will be no misunderstanding about the matter,” said the inspector.
“Well, inspector,” said Hall, “what we want is to walk out of this place free men.”
“You don’t ask much, do you?” said the inspector, amazed at the cheek of the fellow. “But I shall keep my word. Now, tell us about the murders.”