By some magic of duty, he had
contrived to give his usually hebetudinous features an expression
of enthusiasm.
"Say, Chief," the detective said rapidly, "they've squealed!"
Burke regarded his aide with an air intolerably triumphant. His
voice came smug:
"Squealed, eh?" His glance ran over Garson for a second, then
made its inquisition of Mary and of Dick Gilder. He did not give
a look to Cassidy as he put his question. "Do they tell the same
story?" And then, when the detective had answered in the
affirmative, he went on speaking in tones ponderous with
self-complacency; and, now, his eyes held sharply, craftily, on
the woman.
"I was right then, after all--right, all the time! Good enough!"
Of a sudden, his voice boomed somberly. "Mary Turner, I want you
for the murder of----"
Garson's rush halted the sentence. He had leaped forward. His
face was rigid. He broke on the Inspector's words with a gesture
of fury. His voice came in a hiss:
"That's a damned lie!... I did it!"
CHAPTER XXIV.
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