And what had been the meaning of that "financial help"? Had,
for instance--for it was pitifully obvious that if the bank had been
looted an _innocent_ man would not commit suicide on that account--a
greater measure of the depredation been uncovered than had been counted
on, so much indeed that, say, the financial assistance Forrester had
intended to ask for had now increased to such proportions that he had
realised the futility of even a request; or, again, had it for some
reason, since he had telephoned, now become impossible to restore the
funds even if they were in his possession?
A sheet of note paper lying on the desk caught Jimmie Dale's eyes. He
stepped forward, picked it up--and his lips drew tight together, as he
read the two or three miserable lines that were scrawled upon it:
What's left is in the middle drawer of the desk. There's only one way out
now--I don't see any other way. I thought that I could get--but what does
that matter! God help me! I'm sorry.
FLEMING P. FORRESTER.
I'm sorry! It was a pitiful epitaph for a man's life! I'm sorry! Jimmie
Dale's face softened a little--the man was dead now. "I'm sorry....
Fleming P.
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