"You are a pair of hell hounds," he said between his teeth; "but you
are angels compared with the gang that hired you for this. Well, the
game is up! David Archman will settle with _them_ when they face the
investigation--and I will settle with _you_! One night, a year ago, in
last January, a certain Fourth Avenue bank was looted of eighteen
thousand dollars--_do you remember, Laroque?_ Ah, I see you do! The
police are still looking for the man who pulled that job. What would you
say, Laroque, would be the sentence handed out for that little affair to
a man with, say, _your_ past record?"
Laroque's lips were twitching; his face had gone gray.
"Fourteen years would be a light sentence, wouldn't it?" resumed Jimmie
Dale, an even colder menace in his voice. "And you remember Stangeist,
and the Mope, and Australian Ike, don't you, Laroque--you remember they
went to the death house in Sing Sing--and you remember that the Gray
Seal sent them there? Yes, I see you do; I see your memory is good
to-night! Listen, then! I have heard it said that Gentleman Laroque,
with his gangsters behind him, would stop at nothing where Gentleman
Laroque's own skin was concerned.
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