Both men, in their chairs, strained around--and now Curley, too, had
lost his colour.
"My God, what's that!" he whispered.
The thin metal case was in Jimmie Dale's hand. With the tweezers, he
lifted one of the little gray seals to his lips, moistened it, and,
using his elbow, pressed it firmly down upon the envelope.
Came another furious thud upon the door--and another.
"What's that!" Curley's voice was a frantic scream now. "For God's sake,
do you hear, what's that!"
Jimmie Dale, under a pencilled arrow mark indicating the finger print,
was scrawling a few words in printed characters.
"It's the police," said Jimmie Dale calmly. "Somebody murdered the Rat
to-night!" He surveyed the envelope in his hand critically. Between the
arrow mark and the gray seal were the words: "Look on the Rat's
collar--and these gentlemen's fingers." He laid the envelope down on
the table--and, as the door suddenly splintered and sagged under a
terrific blow from some heavy object, he retreated hurriedly to the
farther end of the room. Here a half dozen steps led upward, and hanging
from the ceiling beside them was a cord to which was attached a leaden
weight.
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