"Fwas he—" Slavin checked himself abruptly—"fwhat toime did he get in here?"
"'Bout nine."
"Fwhat toime 'bout fwas ut whin this racket shtarted up betune Windy an'
Larry?"
"Oh, I dunno, Sarjint!—'bout nine, may be—as I say I—"
"Come on!" said the sergeant, abruptly, to his men, "let's go an' eat.
Luk afther thim harses good, Nick," he flung back in a kind tone.
Outside in the dark road they gathered together, bandying mystified conjecture in low tones. "'Tis no use arguin', bhoys," snapped Slavin at last, wearily, "we've got tu see Chuck Reed an' Bob Ingalls an' Brophy av th' hotel. Their wurrd goes—they're straight men. If they had Windy corralled all night, as Nick sez . . . fwhy! . . . that let's Windy out."
He was silent awhile, then: "That harse av Windy's," he burst out with an oath, "I thought 't'was a cinch. Somethin' passin' rum 'bout all this. There's abs'lutely no mistake 'bout th' harse. Somebody in this god-forsaken burg must ha' used him tu du th' killin' wid. Well, let's get on."
Suddenly, as they neared the hotel, a veritable bedlam of sound fell upon their ears, apparently from inside that hostelry—men shouting, a dog barking, and above all the screeching, crazed voice of a drunken man.
The startled policemen dashed into the front entrance, through the office and across the passage into the bar beyond, from whence the uproar proceeded.
"Help! Murder! Pleece!" some apparently high-strung individual was bawling. A ludicrous, but nevertheless dangerous, sight met their eyes.