“Exactly. I am going to print in the _Free Press_ the story of how you sell whisky in your back room. I shall tell whom you have sold whisky to, how much you have sold, give the dates.” Carmel was pretending to more knowledge than she possessed, which, of course, is the first rule in the game. “I--You--’Tain’t so. I never sold a drop. Mebby I give a friend a drink--jest sociable like. But I hain’t sold.” “Don’t lie to me, Mr. Bangs. I know.” She allowed her voice to become less cold. “I don’t want to be hard on you, but it looks as if I would have to.... There’s just one way you can save yourself from going to jail.” She dropped that and let it lay while he looked it over. “Jail!” he said, feebly. “Exactly.... If you will make a clean breast of the whole thing to me, tell me where you get the liquor, who smuggles it in, all about it, I will give you forty-eight hours to get away.... I’m not after you, Mr. Bangs--but I may have to take you--if you aren’t reasonable.” “I tell you I never----” Carmel stood up and turned to the door. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve given you your chance.... Good-by.” He clutched her arm. “Hey!--wait! Where you going?” “To lay my information before the authorities.” “They--they said the authorities was fixed.” Carmel laughed. “That’s better,” she said. “Who said the authorities were fixed?” “I--I didn’t say that--I didn’t----” He sank on a red-plush sofa and covered his face. “Now, Mr. Bangs, just tell what you know. You don’t want to go to jail. In forty-eight hours you can be a long ways from here--and nobody will bother about you--if they get hold of somebody more important.... It’s your last chance. Will you talk or not?” Her hand was on the doorknob again. “I--I----” “Yes?” “They’ll kill me.” “Like they did Sheriff Churchill,” she said. He stared at her goggle-eyed. “Did they do that?” he asked, in sudden terror. “They didn’t do that. I didn’t know nothin’ about it. I thought he run off. I----” “They won’t kill you if you get away,” she said. “Now tell me what you know. Quickly!” she snapped out the last word of command as a school-teacher might speak to a refractory child. “I--I been sellin’.... Not much. Jest a few cases--once in a while--when I could git it.” “How much?” “I--I don’t know exactly. Sometimes I’d git a dozen cases. Sometimes less.” “Made quite a nice living for you?” “I didn’t git it all. I jest got my commission.... I had to pay back most of the profit.” “How did you get the whisky?” “A feller would come and tell me the’ was a shipment comin’. Then I’d git in my car and go out to git what was assigned to me.” “Who would tell you?” “Sometimes one man, sometimes another.” “Who?” her voice was inexorable. “Peewee--mostly.” “Peewee Bangs--your cousin, is he?” “That’s him.” “So he would tell you, and you would go to get it? Where?” “Out to his place.” “The Lakeside Hotel?” “Yes.” “That was headquarters?” “Yes.” “Other folks went there to get whisky?”