“No-o” he said slowly, “I don't see much of him.”
“Do you like him?” asked Larose. “Are you friends?”
“Ye-s, we're friends,” replied the chauffeur, and still speaking very deliberately as if he were weighing his words. “We get along all right together—me and Slim.”
“Then why was he slinging off against you,” snapped the detective, “the morning after the murder? What did he mean by calling you an ensanguined fool?”
The man was now obviously startled, his face went ghastly, and for a few seconds he looked the very picture of surprise, but he pulled himself together quickly, and replied huskily: “I don't know what you mean. He never called me any names.”
“Oh, yes he did,” said Larose. “You were arguing with him on the drive leading to the garage.”
“I know nothing about it,” denied the m
