"And shot her--with my gun," prompted the detective. But, if Haskins was the murderer, he did not fall into this trap of suggestion. "I'm givin' it to you--straight," his whisper went on. "I didn't croak her; I--I grabbed her, and she--got the gat--outta my pocket, but I didn't know that--then. We hears a door slam, an' we thinks it's Gilmore--in the--next room. She sneaks me into the hall and tells me to hide--third floor. Says she'll get me some dough and get me--away." The man's words were so faint and came from his lips in such a jerky tumble that both Tish and Wiggly Price had to lean close in order to hear the rest of his story. "When I gets up there--third floor, I knows it was her--took--the gun. I--I guess she was afraid I was gonna--use it--on her. She knowed she'd done me dirt. Curse her--she made a bum--outta me. "I--I wants that gun, see! After a while I sneaks back down to--second floor--to make her--gimme the gat. As I gets to--to the foot of the stairs I hears a scream. It comes from--from her room. Then--then there's--a shot." Both Tish and Wiggly looked skeptical at this, but neither of them spoke; both sensed that Don Haskins had something to add. They were right; he had. After another moment of silence, Haskins' lips moved again. "The--the door--was open; the--the light was burnin'--inside, an' I seen--the one who did the job--comin' out--of the room." Sergeant Tish snorted derisively. "Haskins," he flung out, "you're lying! Are you going to face your Maker with that lie on your conscience? That stuff's the bunk. You killed her, and you might as well come through." "Wait a minute, sergeant," whispered Wiggly; "ask him whom he saw coming out of the room. There's a chance that he may be telling us the truth!" Tish hesitated a moment, stirred in his chair, winced with the pain of the movement, and then accepted the suggestion. "There's just one way that you can prove that you are giving us straight goods, Haskins," he said, "and that's to tell us who came out of the room." Don Haskins closed his eyes again, and a queer, crooked, mirthless grimace caught up the corners of his mouth, a grimace all the more horrible because a fresh trickle of crimson seeped across his lips and trickled down his unshaven chin. Whether he had begun his story with the intention of ending it at this most unsatisfactory point, or whether the abrupt termination was a matter of sudden decision, can never be known. "She--she was--no good," he told them in an almost inaudible whisper. "She--she made a bum outta me when--when she gimme the go-by. She made that Sarbella kid do a Dutch, and she handed Gilmore--a mean wallop. She got--what was comin' to her. If I wasn't gonna croak--I'd have to talk to save--my own self; but I ain't gonna make no trouble--for nobody--on account--killin' her. That's all you get--from me." "He's lying!" gritted Tish. "Sure he's lying. He killed her."