“No; he spilled everything. But the police didn’t believe him. That’s all that saved me.”
“I heard he said his ghost would come back to haunt you.”
“Ho! That’s a good one,” laughed Cardello. “The devil has got him on a spit over the fire and will keep him turning. I should worry about the little fool’s ghost!”
A whisper of sound from the direction of the billiard tables caused both men to glance up.
There stood Guisseppi a few paces away, surveying them in silence, a blue-steel revolver in his hand!
“Mother of God!” screamed Basco, dropping his pail and mop, and dashing into the street.
Cardello’s eyes bulged from their sockets. His face went as white as paper. Panic, terror, pulled his lips back in a ghastly grin from his chattering teeth. He rose heavily to his feet and stood swaying.
“Guisseppi!” he breathed scarcely above a whisper. “Guisseppi!”
Guisseppi’s lips curled.
“Yes,” he replied. “The boy you ruined, betrayed, sent to death on the gallows.”