"What's your game, Quirk?" he asked.
"It's not my game, Hughie," smiled the lawyer.
"Well, you're not in it for your health, I know that damn well. If it ain't your game, whose is it?"
"I don't know for sure," said Quirk.
"Oh, come on. You know me: you've got to cough up if you want me to help."
Quirk did know the police-lieutenant. He had expected all along to be forced into an admission; but he was aware that by letting Donovan suspect reluctance he could the more speedily gain his point.
"Well," he said, "it didn't come to me straight, but I'll tell you how it did."
He embarked upon a narrative brief and abounding in gaps that Donovan's imagination was not, however, slow to fill as Quirk intended it should.
The officer nodded comprehendingly. "Then who's at the back of it?" he asked.
Quirk walked quietly to the door. He opened it suddenly: nobody had been listening at the keyhole; so he turned to Donovan and said a certain name.