“I don’t know what you mean,” growled Fleming, sullenly.
“Oh, yes you do. But we’ll let that go. I came here this morning to tell you that we’ve identified you as the driver of the car that ran this man down on the Merrick Road and then went on without stopping to see how badly he was hurt.”
The accusation was so sudden, so positive, so direct, that, as Joe had hoped, it took Fleming fairly off his feet. He stood staring wildly at the group, his face an image of guilt. Then he tried to rally.
“It’s false!” he shouted. “I didn’t do anything of the kind.”
“No use of lying, Fleming,” said Joe, coldly. “We’ve got the goods on you.”
“He’s the man!” cried Louis Anderson, excitedly. “He had a cap on then, and his face was red, as though he was drunk, but he’s the same man. I could swear to him.”
“You’re crazy,” snarled Fleming. “I wasn’t on Long Island that day.”
“Didn’t you have dinner at the Long Beach Hotel that day, eh?” asked Joe.
“N-no,” Fleming denied, avoiding Joe’s eyes.
“Yes, you did,” declared Joe, sternly. “And afterward you nearly crashed into the machine I was in. I saw you hit this man. I looked for the number on your car. The number of that car is 36754. Ever heard those figures before, Fleming?”
His eyes were like cold steel now and seemed to be boring Fleming through and through. He seemed so sure of his facts, so unwavering and relentless, that Fleming crumpled up. The arrow shot at a venture had reached its mark.
“It was the old fool’s own fault,” he growled, casting aside all further pretence of denial. “If he hadn’t run in front of the machine he wouldn’t have got hurt.”
“It wasn’t so,” cried Anderson. “You were swerving all over the road. Your crowd was shouting and singing. You didn’t blow your horn. You were half drunk. And after you hit me you didn’t stop.”
“We’re his witnesses,” said Joe. “And I don’t think he’d have any trouble in getting heavy damages from a jury.”
“Let him try it,” snarled Fleming. “I’ve got more money than he has and I’ll fight the case through every court. He’ll die of old age before he ever gets a cent from me.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” remarked Joe, carelessly. “I don’t suppose you’d care to go to jail now, would you, Fleming?”
“It isn’t a question of jail,” replied Fleming.