you think the police would imagine for an instant that I killed him?"
"I said—Henry LaSalle," said Jimmie Dale evenly.
The man came farther up on his elbow, a sudden look of fear in his face.
"What—what do you mean?" he cried hoarsely.
But Jimmie Dale was talking again into the telephone—gasping, choking out his words as before:
"Police headquarters? I'm Henry LaSalle. Fifth Avenue. I—I've been shot. Take down this statement. I'll—I'll be dead before you get here—I'm not the real Henry LaSalle at all. We murdered Henry LaSalle—in Australia, and murdered Peter LaSalle here. We—we tried to kill the daughter, but she ran away. This house has been our headquarters for the last five years. The man who shot me to-night is the leader of the gang. We quarrelled over the division of a haul. He's here on the floor now, wounded. Get them all, get them all, damn them!—do you hear?—get them all! They're out of the house now, but lay a trap for them. They always come in through the garage on the side street. Oh, God, I'm done for! Break down the west walls of the rooms upstairs—if—you—want proof of what—the gang's been doing. Hurry! Hurry! I'm—I'm—done for—I"
Jimmie Dale permitted the telephone to drop with a clash from his hand to the table.
The face of the man on the floor was livid.
"Who are you? In God's name, who are you?" he cried out wildly.
"Does it matter?" inquired Jimmie Dale grimly. "Your game is up. You'll go to the chair for the murder of 'Henry LaSalle'—if it is by proxy! Those rooms upstairs alone are enough to damn you, to prove every word of that dying confession"—but to-morrow, added to it, will come the story of Marie LaSalle herself."
For a moment the man hung there swaying on his elbow, his face working in ghastly fashion—and then suddenly, with a strange laugh, he carried one hand swiftly to his
