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 glasses, and a nasty, cynical smile that held no mirth in it.

“Well, Camonte, what have you got to say for yourself?” he demanded.

“Nothing—here,” snapped Tony. “You must think I'm dumb.”

“Yes, I do.”

Tony's face flamed and the chain of the hand­cuffs rattled as his hands clenched and writhed.

"I want to talk to you alone, Moran," he gritted in a low tone.

Moran surveyed him a moment then produced a revolver and laid it on the desk close at hand.

"You fellows can wait in the outer office," he said to the crowd of detectives. "I'll call you when I want you." As they trooped out, he looked up at the gang leader with a deadly glance. "One false move, Camonte," he said coldly, "and I'll shoot you down like a dog."

“Yes, I believe you'd like to get the chance,” agreed Tony bitterly.

“It would save the state the expense of trying and hanging you.”

Tony laughed harshly. “Don't talk foolish! You couldn't convict me!”