“What I know!”
“See here, that’s an old game,” cried Claude. “It’s a rascal’s last resort. You can’t blackmail me.”
“But I can sell what I know—to the police.”
“You don’t know anything.”
“Do you dare me?”
“Yes.”
“All right.”
Larkins crossed the room, but stopped at the door, the knob of which he held in his hand.
“You wasn’t in the old place that night? Oh, no. You wasn’t in Hell’s Kitchen a few nights ago? You never go to such a disreputable place? Certainly not. The son of Perry Lamont never goes to such places. Why, of course he doesn’t. Hell’s Kitchen? Why, there’s where Mother Flintstone lived—and died, I believe.”
Claude said nothing.