“Huh,” Devlin grunted, “you’ve got the criminal’s low cunning, I’ll admit that, Mr. Maltby of Chicago.”
He made a labored pretence of hunting for his cigarette case.
“Gone!” he said sneering; “some one’s lifted it but I guess you know where it is. Oh no, I forgot. You weren’t a dip, you were a second story man. Excuse me.”
He kept this heavy and malicious humor going until Trent’s imperturbability annoyed him.
“What a change!” he commented presently. “Me the officer and you the enlisted man who’s got to do as I say. You with your fast auto and your golf and society ways and me who used to be a cop.”
Winning no retort from his victim he leaned forward and pushed Trent roughly. He started back at the white wrath which transfigured the other’s face.
“Look here, Devlin,” Trent cried savagely, “you want me to hit you so you can prefer charges against me for striking an officer and have me disciplined. Listen to this: if you put your filthy hand on me again I won’t hit you, I’ll kill you.”
Towering and threatening he stood over the other. Devlin, who knew men and the ways of violence, looked into Trent’s face and recognized it was no idle threat he heard.
“That would be a hell of a fine trick,” he said, a little unsteadily, “to empty your gun in my back.”
“You know I wouldn’t do it that way,” Trent retorted. “Why should I let you off so easily as that?”