Even you did not think
to warn him yourself. It did not enter his head to see if there were pen
and ink there with which it might have been written, or, failing that, a
fountain pen in Forrester's pocket--and there was neither the one nor
the other. That's all--except the name of the man who killed Forrester."
Jimmie Dale leaned forward sharply. "Who was it?"
English Dick wet his lips again.
"I--they--they'd kill me like--like a dog if I told," he mumbled.
"_They?"_ The monosyllable came curt and hard.
"I don't know," said English Dick. "That's God's truth--I never
knew--there's a big gang--none of us know.".
"But you know who worked with you in this." Jimmie Dale was speaking
through clenched teeth. "You know who killed Forrester."
"Yes." The man's whisper was scarcely audible.
"Who?"
"Reddy--Reddy Mull."
"Yes," said Jimmie Dale in his grim monotone, "I thought so."
He reached into the satchel where a small package of securities were
wrapped up in a sheet of the bank's stationery, removed the sheet of
paper, and spread it out before English Dick. "Write it down!" he
commanded--and the muzzle of his automatic jerked forward to touch the
fountain pen in the other's vest pocket.
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