“No; I’m a damn fool. No detective would be crazy enough to conceal his identity from the officers and expose it to the man he was to investigate.”
“That’s true. Well, suppose I tell yuh I don’t know where the money is?”
“I’d believe yuh, Ayres.”
“Would yuh? Yo’re a hell of a detective!”
“I know it,” grinned Hashknife. “Let’s go back a ways on this case. I heard that you turned bandit to furnish yore wife with more money than you could earn.”
Len got slowly to his feet and leaned against the wall, his face in the shadow now.
“That’s a new one,” he said grimly. “I suppose I threw away my hat in the bank to prove an alibi? What’s the use, Hartley? If I didn’t pull them jobs, you’d have a sweet time puttin’ the deadwood on somebody else, after all this time.”
“Don’tcha want it proved, Ayres?”
Len was silent a while. Then:
“Hartley, my son thinks I’m a thief and a murderer. Does that answer yore question?”