other person in the room,
and in consequence Burke permitted himself, quite unashamed, to employ
those methods of persuasion which have risen to a high degree of
admiration in police circles.

"Come across now!" he admonished. His voice rolled forth like that of a
bull of Bashan. He was on his feet, facing the two thieves. His head was
thrust forward menacingly, and his eyes were savage. The two men shrank
before him--both in natural fear, and, too, in a furtive policy of their
own. This was no occasion for them to assert a personal pride against
the man who had them in his toils.

"I don't know nothin'!" Chicago Red's voice was between a snarl and a
whine. "Ain't I been telling you that for over an hour?"

Burke vouchsafed no answer in speech, but with a nimbleness surprising
in one of his bulk, gave Dacey, who chanced to be the nearer of the two,
a shove that sent the fellow staggering half-way across the room under
its impetus.

With this by way of appreciable introduction to his seriousness of
purpose, Burke put a question:

"Dacey, how long have you been out?"

The answer came in a sibilant whisper of dread.

"A week."

Burke pushed the implication brutally.

"Want to go back for another stretch?" The Inspector's voice was
freighted with suggestions of disasters to come, which were well
understood by the cringing wretch before him.

The thief shuddered, and his face, already pallid from the prison lack
of sunlight like some noxious growth of a cellar, became livid. His
words came in a muffled moan of fear.

"God, no!"

Burke left a little interval of silence then in which the thieves
might tremble over the prospect suggested by his words, but always he
maintained his steady, relentless glare on the cowed creatures. It was
a familiar warfare with him. Yet, in this instance, he was destined
to failure, for the men were of a type different from that of English
Eddie, who was lying dead as the meet reward for treachery to his
fellows.... When, at last, his question issued from the close-shut lips,
it came like the crack of a gun.

"Who shot Griggs?"

The reply was a chorus from the two:

"I don't know--honest, I don't!"

In his eagerness, Chicago Red moved toward his questioner--unwisely.

"Honest to Gawd, I don't know nothin' about it!"

The Inspector's fist shot out toward Chicago Red's jaw. The impact was
enough. The thief went to his knees under the blow.

"Now, get up--and talk!" Burke's