"Wait a minute, Mr. Forman. This flatfoot hasn't got a thing on me. It may be better to answer questions and--" "No!" burst out Forman. "Don't answer any questions. They'll--" Of the two the prisoner seemed far the cooler. He shook his head gently. "Naw, they won't do a thing; they haven't got anything to do it with. Let 'em ask." The lawyer glared at him. He spat out: "Better get another lawyer, since you know so much." He turned abruptly and walked out. Boyle turned a smiling face to the other men in the room. "These mouthpieces have their little ways, haven't they? One would think HE was being accused of murder. Go on and ask what you like. I'll answer your questions because I haven't got anything to hide." "That's swell," said Brasher with thinly disguised sarcasm. "'Member the job of yours near Yonkers, where you got in with a rope hooked around a chimney and climbin' irons. 'Member that, Boyle?" "Sure, I remember it. But that was a frame up. The police had to have a goat and I was it. But they didn't get away with it. Some judges are honest and this one didn't let them frame me." "Yeah, that's right. Well, Boyle, mebbe you heard about this Morris Miller who was murdered right outside of town here early in the morning of July 4th. Heard of that did you?" There was a tightening of the prisoner's jaw muscles. His brows were drawn together. His hand holding the cigarette stopped midway. He was looking fixedly at the detective. He nodded. "Yes, I heard of it. What of it?" "Well, the bird who bumped off this Miller got in by using a rope hooked around a chimney like you did--excuse me--like they alleged you did in Yonkers. He used climbing irons too. You used to be a lineman didn't you, Boyle?" Brasher stopped, waiting for the effect of this on the prisoner. He continued: "Now all you got to do, Boyle, is to convince us that you weren't there when Mr. Miller was killed and we'll let you go. See." Boyle's eyes blinked. His ruddy complexion turned several shades lighter. He blinked again. He wet his lips. He made a visible effort to appear calm. He sneered: "Just like a dumb cop. Asking me to prove that I didn't do it. You ought to know by this time that it's up to you to prove that I did it, that I was where you say I was." "I'm not saying anything--yet, Boyle. I'm not saying you was there, but--" he stood up and was standing over the prisoner his face thrust forward, his eyes glinting threateningly, "Boyle, you got a record as long as a pedigreed dog. You've been mugged and finger printed all over this country. You done a bit in Joliet for getting into a house the same way as you got in in Yonkers and as you got in--Miller's Folly. All you got to do, Boyle, is prove--sure you're right about the law, Boyle, about us having to prove it, you're right about that.