Clarie Archman, with God alone
knew what purpose in his heart, was gone.
From the thin metal case, by means of the tiny tweezers, Jimmie Dale
took out a gray seal, laid the seal on his handkerchief, folded the
handkerchief carefully, placed it in his pocket--and crept forward
toward the inner door again. The two men were bending over the table,
over the money on the table, dividing it. Jimmie Dale's lips were
mercilessly thin; a fury, not the white, impetuous heat of passion, but
a fury that was cold, deadly, implacable, possessed his soul. He crept
nearer--still nearer.
"The crowd that put this up says we keep it between us for our work,"
said Laroque shortly. "A third for you, the rest for me. You sure you
put _all_ they gave you in the safe--Niccolo?" He screwed up his eyes
suspiciously. "You sure you ain't trying to hold anything out on me? If
you are, I'll make you--"
The words died short on his lips--his jaw sagged helplessly.
Jimmie Dale was standing in the doorway.
"Niccolo, drop that revolver!" said Jimmie Dale softly. His automatic
held a bead on the two men.
The revolver clattered to the table top. Neither of the men spoke--only
their faces worked in a queer, convulsive sort of way, as they gazed in
startled fascination at Jimmie Dale.
Pages:
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281