"Sure, I was there--everybody saw me! The Spider was a
_friend_ of mine, and everybody knows that, too. I was just going there
to pay a pal a little visit--see? And that's how I found you
there--see? Anything wrong with that spiel? It's a cinch, aint it?" The
fingers closed tighter and tighter on Jimmie Dale's throat. "And that's
enough talk--give me them sparklers!" He flung Jimmie Dale savagely
away. "Get 'em!"
Smarlinghue reeled backward in the direction of the disordered canvases
on the floor. It was quite true! If the Wolf carried out his
threat--which he most certainly would do if he did not get the diamonds
for himself--Smarlinghue, and not the Wolf, would be held for the
Spider's murder. Jimmie Dale stooped, fumbled amongst the canvases, and
produced the cash-box. Well, the diamonds would have to go, that was
all--he had no choice left to him. But he was still "Smarlinghue," still
the half cowed, yet half defiant, pale-faced creature that shook with
mingled rage and fear, as he turned again. He clutched the cash-box to
him, as though loath to let it go; but, too, as though fascinated by the
Wolf's revolver, he moved reluctantly toward the Wolf, who now stood by
the table.
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