"And just one last word," added Laroque sharply. "Don't make the mistake
of thinking that if you refuse to get the affidavits it puts a crimp in
us. It's only because we're playing white with you, and to give you a
chance, that you're getting any choice at all. We didn't intend to give
you one, but we don't want to be too rough on you, so if you want to get
out that way, and will agree to keep on queering your father's game if
he starts it over again, all right. But you want to understand that we
hold just as big a club over your father's head the other way."
"_White!_ Playing white! Oh, my God!" Clarie Archman had lurched up
from the chair to his feet. His face, haggard and drawn, was the face
of one damned.
"Good-night!" said Laroque callously. "You know the way out! You've got
till four o'clock. If you're not back here then--" He shrugged his
shoulders significantly. "You see, I'm not even asking you what you are
going to do. We don't care. It's up to you. Either way suits us. And
now--beat it!"
Jimmie Dale drew back for a second time that night into the hallway. A
step, slow, faltering, unsteady, like that of a man blinded, passed out
from the inner room, and passed on down the length of the front
room--and the door opened and closed.
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