grip and twisted cruelly. "Who was she?" he rasped.
"She's—a gun girl," panted Jane finally. "Schemer Bruno's moll."
"So that's it, eh?" He released Jane's arm and stepped back, gazing down at her with sneering contempt.
"Was that Bruno with her?"
"Yes."
"God! If I'd only known that," gritted the gang leader, murder in his eyes. "And you knew it all the time and wouldn't tell me."
"No. If I had, you'd have tried to bump him off right there. And you would have either been killed by some of his mob—he always has a bodyguard with him—or been pinched by the cops and tried for the job."
"Humph! Don't make me laugh! They couldn't hang anything on me in this town."
"Don't be too sure! Bootlegging's one thing; murder's another."
"What made you want to leave right away when you saw her and Bruno?"
"I—was afraid they might be going to try to pull something. I wanted to get home—to get out of their reach."
