Then silence--a silence of seconds that were as minutes. And then
Gentleman Laroque laughed gratingly.
"Hello, Sonnino!" he said coolly. "A little late, aren't you? You've
kept me stalling for the last five minutes. Know my friend--Mr. Martin
Moore, alias Mr. Clarie Archman? Clarie, this is Signor Niccolo Sonnino,
the proprietor of this joint."
And then to Jimmie Dale, where before his mind had groped in darkness to
reconcile apparently incongruous details, in a flash there came the
light. The "plant" was a little more intricate, a little more cunning, a
little more hellish--that was all!
The boy, white to the lips, was swaying on his feet, grasping at the
table in the centre of the room. He looked from one to the other, a
miserable, dawning understanding in his eyes.
"You--you know my name?" His voice was scarcely audible.
"Sure!" said Laroque--and yawned insolently.
"So!" purred Sonnino, in excellent English. "Is it so! A thief! The son
of the so-honest Mister Attorney--a thief!"
"It's a lie!" The boy's hands, clenched, were raised above his head,
and then shaken almost maniacally in Gentleman Laroque's face. "It's
a lie! I--I don't understand, but--but you two, you devils, are
together in this!"
"Sure!" retorted Laroque, as insolently as before--and flung the other's
hands away.
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