He laughed tersely, finding none. "Empty your pockets out on
the table!" he ordered curtly.
The man hesitated.
Jimmie Dale smiled--unpleasantly.
Thorold swept a bead of sweat from his forehead. His lips were working
nervously. All suavity and polish were gone now; there were only
viciousness and fear, each struggling with the other for the mastery in
the man's smug face.
"Damn you, you blasted snitch!" he burst out furiously. "We'll get you
down here some day, and--"
"Some day, perhaps," said Jimmie Dale softly. "But to-night--did I
explain that I was in a hurry--_Thorold!_ Every pocket inside out,
please!"
Thorold's hand went reluctantly to his pockets. He began with the inside
pocket of his coat, laying a pile of letters and papers on the table.
"Anything there you want?" he sneered.
"Go on!" prompted Jimmie Dale.
From vest pockets came a varied assortment of articles--watch, cigars, a
cigar-cutter, a silver-mounted pencil, and a fountain pen. The man's
hands travelled to his outside coat pockets.
"The _inside_ pocket of the vest, Thorold," suggested Jimmie Dale
coldly.
With a malicious snort, Thorold unbuttoned his vest, and turned the
pocket out.
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