"No, you can't help me," he said, simply. "My time has come, Mary....

And I can save you a lot of trouble."

"He's right there," Burke e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed. "We've got him cold. So, what's the use of dragging you two into it?"

"Then, they go clear?" Garson exclaimed, eagerly. "They ain't even to be called as witnesses?"

Burke nodded a.s.sent.

"You're on!" he agreed.

"Then, here goes!" Garson cried; and he looked expectantly toward the stenographer.

The strain of it all was sapping the will of the girl, who saw the man she so greatly esteemed for his service to her and his devotion about to condemn himself to death. She grew half-hysterical. Her words came confusedly:

"No, Joe! No, no, no!"

Again, Garson shook his head in absolute refusal of her plea.

"There's no other way out," he declared, wearily. "I'm going through with it." He straightened a little, and again looked at the stenographer. His voice came quietly, without any tremulousnesss.

"My name is Joe Garson."

"Alias?" Burke suggested.

"Alias nothing!" came the sharp retort. "Garson's my monaker. I shot English Eddie, because he was a skunk, and a stool-pigeon, and he got just what was coming to him." Vituperation beyond the mere words beat in his voice now.

Burke twisted uneasily in his chair.

"Now, now!" he objected, severely. "We can't take a confession like that."

Garson shook his head--spoke with fiercer hatred, "because he was a skunk, and a stool-pigeon," he repeated. "Have you got it?" And then, as the stenographer nodded a.s.sent, he went on, less violently: "I croaked him just as he was going to call the bulls with a police-whistle. I used a gun with smokeless powder. It had a Maxim silencer on it, so that it didn't make any noise."

Garson paused, and the set despair of his features lightened a little.

Into his voice came a tone of exultation indescribably ghastly. It was born of the eternal egotism of the criminal, fattening vanity in gloating over his ingenuity for evil. Garson, despite his two great virtues, had the vices of his cla.s.s. Now, he stared at Burke with a quizzical grin crooking his lips.

"Say," he exclaimed, "I'll bet it's the first time a guy was ever croaked with one of them things! Ain't it?"

The Inspector nodded affirmation. There was sincere admiration in his expression, for he was ready at all times to respect the personal abilities of the criminals against whom he waged relentless war.

"That's right, Joe!" he said, with perceptible enthusiasm.

"Some cla.s.s to that, eh?" Garson demanded, still with that gruesome air of boasting. "I got the gun, and the Maxim-silencer thing, off a fence in Boston," he explained. "Say, that thing cost me sixty dollars, and it's worth every cent of the money.... Why, they'll remember me as the first to spring one of them things, won't they?"

"They sure will, Joe!" the Inspector conceded.

"n.o.body knew I had it," Garson continued, dropping his braggart manner abruptly.

At the words, Mary started, and her lips moved as if she were about to speak.

Garson, intent on her always, though he seemed to look only at Burke, observed the effect on her, and repeated his words swiftly, with a warning emphasis that gave the girl pause.

"n.o.body knew I had it--n.o.body in the world!" he declared. "And n.o.body had anything to do with the killing but me."

Burke put a question that was troubling him much, concerning the motive that lay behind the shooting of Griggs.

"Was there any bad feeling between you and Eddie Griggs?"

Garson's reply was explicit.

"Never till that very minute. Then, I learned the truth about what he'd framed up with you." The speaker's voice reverted to its former fierceness in recollection of the treachery of one whom he had trusted.

"He was a stool-pigeon, and I hated his guts! That's all," he concluded, with brutal candor.

The Inspector moved restlessly in his chair. He had only detestation for the slain man, yet there was something morbidly distasteful in the thought that he himself had contrived the situation which had resulted in the murder of his confederate. It was only by an effort that he shook off the vague feeling of guilt.

"Nothing else to say?" he inquired.

Garson reflected for a few seconds, then made a gesture of negation.

"Nothing else," he declared. "I croaked him, and I'm glad I done it. He was a skunk. That's all, and it's enough. And it's all true, so help me G.o.d!"

The Inspector nodded dismissal to the stenographer, with an air of relief.

"That's all, Williams," he said, heavily. "He'll sign it as soon as you've transcribed the notes."

Then, as the stenographer left the room, Burke turned his gaze on the woman, who stood there in a posture of complete dejection, her white, anguished face downcast. There was triumph in the Inspector's voice as he addressed her, for his professional pride was full-fed by this victory over his foes. But there was, too, an undertone of a feeling softer than pride, more generous, something akin to real commiseration for this unhappy girl who drooped before him, suffering so poignantly in the knowledge of the fate that awaited the man who had saved her, who had loved her so unselfishly.

"Young woman," Burke said briskly, "it's just like I told you. You can't beat the law. Garson thought he could--and now----!" He broke off, with a wave of his hand toward the man who had just sentenced himself to death in the electric-chair.

"That's right," Garson agreed, with somber intensity. His eyes were grown clouded again now, and his voice dragged leaden. "That's right, Mary," he repeated dully, after a little pause. "You can't beat the law!"

There followed a period of silence, in which great emotions were vibrant from heart to heart. Garson was thinking of Mary, and, with the thought, into his misery crept a little comfort. At least, she would go free.

That had been in the bargain with Burke. And there was the boy, too. His eyes shot a single swift glance toward d.i.c.k Gilder, and his satisfaction increased as he noted the alert poise of the young man's body, the strained expression of the strong face, the gaze of absorbed yearning with which he regarded Mary. There could be no doubt concerning the depth of the lad's love for the girl. Moreover, there were manly qualities in him to work out all things needful for her protection through life. Already, he had proved his devotion, and that abundantly, his unswerving fidelity to her, and the force within him that made these worthy in some measure of her.

Garson felt no least pang of jealousy. Though he loved the woman with the single love of his life, he had never, somehow, hoped aught for himself. There was even something almost of the paternal in the purity of his love, as if, indeed, by the fact of restoring her to life he had taken on himself the responsibility of a parent. He knew that the boy worshiped her, would do his best for her, that this best would suffice for her happiness in time. Garson, with the instinct of love, guessed that Mary had in truth given her heart all unaware to the husband whom she had first lured only for the l.u.s.t of revenge. Garson nodded his head in a melancholy satisfaction. His life was done: hers was just beginning, now.... But she would remember him--oh, yes, always! Mary was loyal.

The man checked the trend of his thoughts by a mighty effort of will.

He must not grow maudlin here. He spoke again to Mary, with a certain dignity.

"No, you can't beat the law!" He hesitated a little, then went on, with a certain curious embarra.s.sment. "And this same old law says a woman must stick to her man."

The girl's eyes met his with pa.s.sionate sorrow in their misty deeps.

Garson gave a significant glance toward d.i.c.k Gilder, then his gaze returned to her. There was a smoldering despair in that look. There were, as well, an entreaty and a command.

"So," he went on, "you must go along with him, Mary.... Won't you? It's the best thing to do."

The girl could not answer. There was a clutch on her throat just then, which would not relax at the call of her will.

The tension of a moment grew, became pervasive. Burke, accustomed as he was to scenes of dramatic violence, now experienced an altogether unfamiliar thrill. As for Garson, once again the surge of feeling threatened to overwhelm his self-control. He must not break down! For Mary's sake, he must show himself stoical, quite undisturbed in this supreme hour.