"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.
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