Of the three men they found there it was plain that one was being pushed doggedly to bay. He was small and insignificant, with weak blinking eyes. Standing with his back to the wall, he moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue.
“Who says it?” he whined shrilly. “Who says I sold out?”
An apoplectic, bull-necked ruffian stood directly in front of him and sawed the air violently with a fat forefinger.
“I ain't sayin' it, Killen—I'm askin' if you have. What I say is that you'd better make your will before you vote for Frome. Make 'em pay fat, for by thunder! you'll be political junk, Mr. Sam Killen.”
Killen, sweating agony, turned appealingly to Jeff. “I haven't said I was going to vote for Frome. Mr. Rawson's got no right to bulldoze me and I'm not going to stand it.”
“The hell you ain't,” roared Rawson, shaking his fist at the unhappy legislator. “I guess you'll stand the gaff till you explain.”
“Just a moment, Bob,” interrupted Jeff. “Let's get at the facts. Don't convict the prisoner till the evidence is in.”
Rawson hobbled his wrath for the moment. “That's all right, Jeff. You ask Hardy. I'm giving you straight goods.”
The keen-eyed, smooth-shaven man in a gray business suit who had been listening silently to the gathering storm contributed information briefly and impartially.
“Mr. Killen spent an hour last night with Big Tim at the Pacific Hotel.”