Charlie’s eyes glowed with a reflection of the lamplight.
“The game’s up, Bill,” he cried hoarsely. “My God, it’s been given away. Pete Clancy, the feller you hammered, has turned informer. I—I shot him dead. Say, the gang’s out to-night. They’re coming in with a cargo of liquor. Fyles is wise to their play, and knows just how it’s coming in. They’ll be trapped to a man.”
“You—shot Pete—dead?”
In the overwhelming rush of his brother’s information, the death of the informer at his, Charlie’s, hands seemed alone to penetrate Bill’s, as yet, none too alert faculties.
“Yes, yes,” cried the other impatiently. “I’d have shot him, or—or anybody else for such treachery, but—but—it’s the other that matters. I’ve got to get out and stop that cargo. It’s midnight now, and—God! If the police get——”
Bill’s brain was working more rapidly, and so were his hands. He was almost dressed now.
“But you, Charlie,” he cried, all his concern for his brother uppermost. “They’ll get you. And—and they’ll hang you for killing Pete—sure.”
Suddenly a peal of hysterical laughter, which ended in a furious curse, rang through the room.
“God Almighty!” Charlie cried fiercely, “don’t stand there yapping about me. Hang me? What in hell do I care what they do to me? I haven’t come here about myself. Nothing that concerns me matters. Here, it’s midnight. I’ve time to reach ’em and give ’em the word. See, that’s why I’m here. I don’t know what’s happened by now, or what may happen. You offered to help. Will you help me now? Bill, I’ve got to get there, and warn ’em. The police will try and stop us. If there are two of us, one may get through—will you——?”
Bill crushed his hat on his head. His eyes, big and blue, were gleaming with the light of battle.