Ford banged his fist on the desk. “You’re a liar, McKay,” he shouted. “You were identified by Dr. Clayton and by the Filipino.” He rose to his feet once more and pointed an accusing forefinger at McKay. “And I’ll tell you why you murdered Doris Blair, too. It was because you were jealous of her. You thought she was tearing around with other men. You know you were and you let that vicious temper of yours get the best of you—that same vicious temper that made you hit the bottom—that same vicious temper that made you lose job after job until nobody would have you. You murdered Doris Blair when that temper got the best of you, just as you once broke a man’s jaw when you worked at the Lafayette, just as you once smashed a violin over the head of one of your musicians, just as you’ve always resorted to violence when anyone has crossed you.” Ford paused dramatically, looking for the effect of his oratory.

McKay straightened up in his chair. He surveyed Ford contemptuously. “I thought you said I waited for Doris,” he said. “That I had planned her murder. How would temper enter into a situation like that?”

“Very clever, McKay,” Ford said ominously, then he banged his fist on the desk again. “But I’ll tell you why. Because you had only to look at her to be reminded of your jealousy and to feel the rage that comes so easily to you.”

McKay smiled faintly, accentuating the look of scorn on his face. Ford shifted from one foot to the other uncomfortably. Then he motioned to the guard who had brought McKay there to take him out.

Back in his cell, McKay lay on the cot again, worn with the unending hurt of his battered body and the unutterable weariness of his ragged nerves.

And wherever he felt the sudden twinge of a pain, he immediately began to see and feel again the blow that caused it, to experience from beginning to end the shatteringly humiliating punishment.

Hatred for the men who had beaten him seethed inside him, and suddenly something seemed to explode where the turmoil had been and he screamed like a madman, a long high frenzied wail.

A guard opened the door of his cell to quiet him. McKay, maddened, sprang forward.

“Filthy bastard,” he gritted. “Teach you to beat a man up—”

And, falling on the astonished guard, McKay struck the man a fierce blow behind the ear. But the guard spun away, recovering himself, and with a quick slap sent McKay sprawling down to the hard floor. The next moment the cell was full of other guards. McKay dimly heard them talking.

“Tough guy—tried to break out.”

“We better fix him so he don’t get no more fancy ideas along that line.”

They hauled him to his feet. McKay stared frightenedly into cold, ugly eyes.