And yet, why
then had the Wolf, deliberately in that case, sent his pack off on a
false scent? In the mirror he could see that huge jaw outthrust, the
black eyes narrowed, an ugly leer on the working face--and a revolver in
the Wolf's hand that held a bead on his, Jimmie Dale's, head.
It was "Smarlinghue," the wretched, nervous, drug-wrecked creature that
turned around--and, as though startled at the sight of the other, almost
let the bottle fall from his hand.
"So it was you--eh--Smarlinghue! Curse you!" snarled the Wolf. "Come out
here, and stand in the centre of the room!"
Smarlinghue cringed. He put down the bottle with a trembling hand, and
slouched forward.
"I ain't done nothing!" he whined.
"No, you ain't done a thing--except crack a box and pinch about ten
thousand dollars' worth of sparklers!" The Wolf's face, if possible, was
more ugly in its threat than before.
Smarlinghue, in a sort of stupefied amazement, stared around the
room--as though he expected to see a gleaming heap of diamonds leap into
sight somewhere before him. He shook his head helplessly.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he mumbled. "I--I heard a row
outside there a little while ago.
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