FOR a few seconds after John Boland's departure, Harrington sat pondering wretchedly. "Yes; that's the thing," he decided. "Chuck the whole mess. I'm not up to it."
But by now, Jailor White, having noted the manner of John Boland's departure and reflected upon it, felt himself impelled to break in upon Henry immediately, and to guarantee against interruptions this time, he closed the door behind him and turned the key in the lock. "Gee! You must have soaked Old Two Blades between the eyes!" he remarked, gazing in awe upon the man who could do such a thing.
"It was coming to him," affirmed Harrington, seething still.
"I'll tell 'em," agreed White with diplomatic emphasis. "But say! I was starting to tell you about Miss Billie coming down here the night of the fire."
For a moment Harrington's face wore a silly, staring look, as if someone might have clipped him behind the ear with a black-jack. Then he lifted himself, slowly at first, while his voice deepened with incredulous amazement. "Billie Boland . . . down here . . . the night of the fire?" He had ended by leaping to his feet while his hands reached out fiercely to the jailor as if he would tear the story out of him. "What for? . . . Who for?" he pleaded excitedly.
"Well, she didn't say who," qualified White cannily;
