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Whadjawant me for?" "I want you in that cab. The man who saw you in my uncle's room the night he was killed is with me. You can either come with us now an' talk this thing over quietly or I'll hang on to you an' call for a policeman. It's up to you. Either way is agreeable to me." Beads of perspiration broke out on the fat man's forehead.
He stood glaring at the young man, his prominent eyes projecting, the red capillaries in his beefy face filling. "Whadjawant?" he demanded. "A few words with you, Mr. Hull." Kirby pushed past him into the room, much as an impudent agent does. "Well, I don't aim to have no truck with you at all," blustered the fat man. "You've just naturally wore out yore welcome with me before ever you set down.
Hull looked across the valley nervously and brought his eyes back with a jerk. "Well, what's it all about? Whadjawant?" "I know now why you lied at the inquest about the time you saw me on the night my uncle was killed," Kirby told him. "I didn't lie. Maybe I was mistaken. Any man's liable to make a mistake." "You didn't make a mistake.
"Whadjawant me for?" "Murder." Dave gasped. His heart beat fast with a prescience of impending disaster. "Murder," he repeated dully. "You're charged with the murder of George Doble last night in Denver." The boy stared at him with horror-stricken eyes. "Doble? My God, did I kill him?" He clutched at a porch post to steady himself. The hills were sliding queerly up into the sky.
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