Maybe that's it."
"Yes--_mabbe_ it is!" sneered the Wolf viciously. "So you don't know
anything about it--eh? You've got a hell of a good memory, haven't you!
You don't know anything about the Spider's safe, or about a little fight
in the Spider's room, or about jumping out of the window, and beating it
for here with the gang after you--no, you don't! You never heard of it
before--of course, you didn't!"
Smarlinghue began to wring his hands nervously one over the other. He
shook his head helplessly again.
"It wasn't me!" He licked his lips. "Honest, it wasn't me! I--I don't
know what you're talking about. I ain't been out of this room. Honest!
Somebody's trying to put me in wrong. I tell you, I ain't been out of
here all night. I--look!" With sudden, feverish eagerness, as though
from an inspiration, he pointed to the paint brush, the palette, and the
canvas on the easel. "Look! Look for yourself! You can see for yourself!
I've been painting."
And then the Wolf laughed--and it was not a pleasant laugh.
"Yes, you've been painting!" he jeered. "Sure, you have! I know
that! Only you've been _painting_ a damned sight more than you
thought you were!"
The revolver muzzle covered Jimmie Dale steadily, unswervingly; in the
Wolf's face was malicious and sardonic mockery--but the Wolf's eyes were
no longer on Jimmie Dale's face, they seemed curiously intent upon the
floor at Jimmie Dale's feet.
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