"I can't! Oh, my God, I--I can't!" he moaned. He lowered his hands after
a moment, and gazed around him unseeingly, a queer, ghastly look came
into his face. "I--I guess--I guess there's only one--one way to--to
beat them," he whispered. "One way to beat them, and--"
The package in Jimmie Dale's hand dropped suddenly to the floor, he
wrenched the portieres aside, and, with a low, sharp cry, sprang
forward. The boy had taken a revolver from his pocket, and was lifting
it to his head. Jimmie Dale struck up the other's hand--but in time only
to deflect the shot; too late to prevent it being fired. There was a
flash in mid-air, the roar of the report went racketing through the
silent house, and the revolver, spinning from the other's hands, struck
against the wall across the room.
And then Jimmie Dale had the boy by the shoulders, and was shaking him
violently. Clarie Archman was like one stunned, numbed, and bereft of
his senses.
"It's all right--you're clear! Do you hear--try and understand--you're
clear!" Jimmie Dale whispered fiercely. "Here's your letter!" He thrust
it into the other's hand. "Destroy it! Those men--Sonnino--Barca--will
say nothing.
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