Laroque was the gambler--a
twisted smile was forced to his lips.
"You win," he said hoarsely. "You can take it from me, I'll go up the
river for fourteen years for no one--I'll take blasted good care of
that! But you"--a rage, ungovernable and elemental, found voice in a
sudden torrent of blasphemous invective--"you--we'll get you yet! Some
day we'll get you, you cursed snitch, you--"
"Good-night!" said Jimmie Dale grimly, and, stepping swiftly back over
the threshold, shut and locked the door.
He gained the street, gained his car in front of The Sphinx--and, twenty
minutes later, after a break-neck run in which Benson for the second
time that night defied all speed laws, Jimmie Dale alighted from his car
at a street corner well uptown, dismissed Benson for the night, retraced
his way half the distance back along the block, disappeared into a lane,
and presently, taking a high fence with the agility of a cat in spite
of, his encumbering package, dropped noiselessly down into a backyard.
It was well known ground to Jimmie Dale--as a boy he had played here in
the Archman's backyard, played here with Clarie Archman. His face
masked again, he moved swiftly toward the rear of the house.
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