No one is looking. Here."
But the detective only held him the closer.
"I want you for burglary," he whispered under his breath. "You've got
to come with me now, and quick. The less fuss you make, the better for
both of us. If you don't know who I am, you can feel my badge under my
coat there. I've got the authority. It's all regular, and when we're
out of this d--d row I'll show you the papers."
He took one hand from Hade's throat and pulled a pair of handcuffs
from his pocket.
"It's a mistake. This is an outrage," gasped the murderer, white and
trembling, but dreadfully alive and desperate for his liberty. "Let me
go, I tell you! Take your hands off of me! Do I look like a burglar,
you fool?"
"I know who you look like," whispered the detective, with his face
close to the face of his prisoner. "Now, will you go easy as a
burglar, or shall I tell these men who you are and what I _do_ want
you for? Shall I call out your real name or not? Shall I tell them?
Quick, speak up; shall I?"
There was something so exultant--something so unnecessarily savage in
the officer's face that the man he held saw that the detective knew
him for what he really was, and the hands that had held his throat
slipped down around his shoulders, or he would have fallen.
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