"Keep 'em up, and turn around," said Peter, in a fierce whisper, pulling out his own strong flashlight to take the place of Angelo's little, cheap one which had fallen to the floor. "So--it was you--you, all the time, Angelo! I might have known. An inside job--yes, it was an inside job, all right. I knew that from the start, and I've had you watched all along. You hear! And now I've caught you--you!" The little Italian shook and shivered, blinking in the blinding light, glancing fearfully from Peter's face to the small, blue-black instrument of death which pointed so unerringly at his pounding heart. "Don' shoot! Don' shoot, Boss," he pleaded in a sobbing whisper. "Me do noding, noding only justa lika you say! Oh, Santa Maria dell' Angeli, put up dat damma gun!" Still fixing the trembling wretch with menacing eyes, Peter slowly dropped his hand and slid his small automatic into the side pocket of his coat. "I'll shoot you through my pocket if you make a move, Angelo," he hissed. "And I'd rather do it than not, see! Make no mistake about that. Now, come with me," and he seized the janitor roughly by the wrist. "Ug-g-gh!" Angelo cringed and caught Peter's grasping hand with his left. "Take hol' furder up," he begged. "Gotta da sore arm, me--ver' bad." Peter loosened his fingers just enough to disclose a long, scarcely healed cut across the inner side of the man's wrist. He looked sharply at it and at Angelo, then shifted his hold higher on the forearm. "I don't know why you think I ought to be tender of your feelings, you scoundrel," he said, gruffly. "But come in where we can get a light. I want to have a heart-to-heart talk with you, you lying, thieving, murdering----Hell! What's that?" As he turned, Peter's foot struck hard against something which lay upon the floor. "Datta da silv'!" Angelo wailed, softly. "Come putta him back--me." "Pick it up and bring it in here," ordered Peter, sternly. "And don't try any tricks. I warn you----" Obediently, the Italian stooped, and picking up a rather large package, roughly wrapped in newspapers, preceded Peter to the dining room, where Peter swiftly lit the gas. "Now," said Peter, "you sit there. And keep your hands above the table." He drew up a chair on the opposite side, and ostentatiously laid his automatic close beside him upon the dusty mahogany. "Now, Angelo," he said, grimly, "you're going to tell me how you killed Miss Mary Blake." "Ah, Jesus Maria!" cried the little Italian, in agony, lifting his trembling, shaking hands in the air, and looking at Peter with staring, panic-stricken eyes. "Me no killa! Me! Mees Mary she go 'way--sist' go 'way! Nobod' here. Nobod'! Me no killa nobod' no time!" Peter's eyes narrowed as he looked fixedly at the man's face. "Did she tell you she was going away?--Miss Mary, did she tell you?" he asked, earnestly. Angelo nodded quickly, and then shook his head.