Forrester"--he had seen that signature on bank paper a
hundred times in the old days; he had little thought ever to see it on a
document such as this!
He stared at the paper for a long time, and then, from the paper, his
eyes travelled over the desk, then shifted again to Forrester--and then,
for the second time, he knelt beside the other on the floor. For the
moment, what was referred to as "being all that was left" in the middle
drawer of the desk could wait. There was another matter now. He felt
hurriedly through Forrester's vest and coat pockets--and from one of the
pockets drew out a folded piece of paper. It was not what he was looking
for, but it was all that rewarded his search. He unfolded the paper. It
was dirty and crumpled, and the few lines written upon it were badly
penned and illiterate:
The ante's gone up--get me? Six thousand bucks. You come across with
that to-morrow morning by ten o'clock--or I'll spill the beans. And I
ain't got any more paper to write any more letters on either--savvy?
This is the last.
There was no signature. Jimmie Dale read it again--and abruptly put it
in his own pocket. Yes, he had liked Forrester--well enough for this
anyway! The man might have a mother perhaps--it would be bad enough in
any case.
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