“Y-y-yes, I knew.”  

 “And you know Isaacs, the Jew?”  

 “Y-y-yes, I know him.”  

 “He was the fellow that drove the jitney, wasn’t he?”  

 “Y-y-yes, he drove the jitney.”  

 “Where did he drive it?”  

 “H-h-he drove it everywhere.”  

 “He drove it over here with the suit-case, didn’t he?”  

 “Yes, he did.”  

 “And you know Biddle, and you know what he did, don’t you?”  

 “Yes, I know.”  

 “And you’re willing to tell all you know about it, are you?”  

 “Yes, I’ll tell it all. I’ll tell whatever you—”  

 “You’ll tell whatever you know, will you?”  

 “Y-y-yes, sir.”  

 “And you’ll stand by it? You’ll not try to back out? You don’t want to go back into the hole?”  

 “No, sir.”  

 And suddenly Guffey pulled from his pocket a paper folded up. It was several typewritten sheets. “Peter Gudge,” he said, “I been looking up your record, and I’ve found out what you did in this case. You’ll see when you read how perfectly I’ve got it. You won’t find a single mistake in it.” Guffey meant this for wit, but poor Peter was too far gone with terror to have any idea that there was such a thing as a smile in the world. 

 “This is 

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