"I will give you a chance," he cried. "If you'll give your word to this man and to me, that, so help you God, you'll never drink again—I'll let you go."
If what Standish proposed had been something base, Aintree could not have accepted it with more contempt.
"I'll see you in hell first," he said.
As though the interview was at an end, Standish dropped into his chair and leaning forward, from the table picked up a cigar. As he lit it, he motioned Meehan toward his prisoner, but before the policeman could advance the sound of footsteps halted him.
Bullard, his eyes filled with concern, leaped up the steps, and ran to the desk.
"Lieutenant!" he stammered, "that man—the nigger that officer shot—he's dead!"
Aintree gave a gasp that was partly a groan, partly a cry of protest, and Bullard, as though for the first time aware of his presence, sprang back to the open door and placed himself between it and Aintree.
"It's murder!" he said.
None of the three men spoke; and when Meehan crossed to where Aintree stood, staring fearfully at nothing, he had only to touch his sleeve, and Aintree, still staring, fell into step beside him.
From the yard outside Standish heard the iron door of the cell swing shut, heard the key grate in the lock, and the footsteps of Meehan returning.