Rouletta was about to move on, when the other addressed her through teeth that clicked like castanets.
"I got here—late. Is it true? Have they—gone after Joe and Frank?"
"Yes."
"What happened? I—I haven't heard. Don't they think—Pierce did it?"
"You KNOW he didn't do it," Rouletta cried. "Neither did he steal
Courteau's money."
"What do you mean, 'I know'?" Laure's voice was harsh, imperative. She clutched at the other girl; then, as Rouletta hesitated, she regained control of herself and ran on, in a tone bitterly resentful: "Oh, you'd like to get him out of it—save him for yourself—wouldn't you? But you can't. You can't have him. I won't let you. My God! Letty, he's the only thing I ever cared for! I never had even a dog or a cat or a canary of my own. Think a little bit of me."
Almost dazed by this mingled accusation and appeal, Rouletta at length responded by a question, "Then why haven't you done something to clear him?"
Laure drew her flimsy wrap closer; she was shaking wretchedly. When she spoke her words were spilled from her lips as if by the tremors of her body. "I could help. I would, but—you sha'n't have him. Nobody shall! I'd rather see him dead. I'd—No, no! I don't know what I'm saying. I'd sooner die than hurt him. I'd do my bit, only—McCaskey'd kill me. Say. Will Rock get him, d'you think? I hear he gets his man every time. But Joe's different; he's not the ordinary kind; he's got the devil in him. Frank—he's a dog, but Joe'll fight. He'll kill—at the drop of the hat. So will Rock, I suppose. Maybe he'll kill them both, eh? Or maybe they'll kill him and get away. I don't care which way it goes—"
"Don't talk like that!" Rouletta exclaimed.
"I mean it," Laure ran on, crazily. "Yes, Joe'd kill anybody that stood in his way or doublecrossed him. I guess I know. Why, he told me so himself! And Courteau knew it, perfectly well—the poor fool!—but look at him now. He got his, didn't he?"