"Two murders on your soul! That's what it comes to. What were you thinking of, man? You'll go to the chair for this."
Randall staggered against the wall where he leant, covering his face with his hands.
"My only human witness!" he mumbled.
Garth knew it would be a kindness to get him out of this house, but first he did his duty with a strong distaste.
"You'd better tell us," he said. "Say something. It might help you in the end."
Randall lowered his hands. His face worked.
"I'll say nothing—nothing," he cried fiercely.
He stretched out his hands to Garth.
"No handcuffs," Garth said gruffly. "We might go in one of those automobiles."
Randall stumbled forward. He groped about the hat-rack.
"My hat! Where's my hat? Do as you wish. But not Treving's car. Good God! You wouldn't take me to jail in Treving's car!"
Garth was restless the next day. The public, in common with the police department and the district attorney's office, looked upon the case against Randall as proved and, to all purposes, disposed of. But Garth, walking along upper Fifth Avenue in the afternoon, could not resist stopping at an expensive florist's and demanding a rose for his button-hole. When it was brought he asked the price, and, a good deal disconcerted, handed over the money.
