"Thank you!" said Jimmie Dale politely. He stepped briskly into the
room, shoved Sonnino unceremoniously to one side, shoved his revolver
muzzle none too gently into Laroque's ribs, and went through the
latter's clothes. "Yes," he said, "I thought quite possibly you might
have one." He pocketed Laroque's revolver, and also Sonnino's from the
table. "And now that letter--thank you!" He whipped the letter from
Laroque's inside coat pocket and transferred it to his own, then
stepped back, and smiled--but the smile was not inviting. "I've only
about five minutes to spare," murmured Jimmie Dale. "I'm in a _hurry_,
Niccolo. I see some wrapping paper and string over there on top of the
safe. Get it!"
The man obeyed mechanically, in a stupefied sort of way, and placed
several of the sheets and a quantity of string upon the table. Laroque,
silent, sullen, under the spell of Jimmie Dale's automatic, watched the
proceedings without a word.
"Now," said Jimmie Dale, and an icy note began to creep into the velvet
tones, "you two are going to make the first charitable contribution you
ever made in your lives--say, to one of the city hospitals. Make as neat
and as small a parcel of that money as you can, Niccolo.
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