"Go over to that table!" ordered Jimmie
Dale curtly.
The man obeyed.
"Sit down!" Jimmie Dale was clipping off his words in cold menace.
Again the man obeyed.
Jimmie Dale, his back to the door as he faced the other across the
table, snapped open the bag. It was full to the top with banknotes and
securities. Under his mask his lips curled in a hard, forbidding smile.
He took from his pocket the package of the bank's securities he had
found in the drawer of Forrester's desk, and laid it in silence on the
table beside the satchel; beside this again, still in silence, he placed
the bottle that had contained the hydrocyanic acid, and--after an
instant's pause--spread out the sheet of note paper bearing Forrester's
forged signature.
The man's face, white before, had gone a livid gray.
"W-what do you want?" he whispered.
"I want you to write another confession." There was a deadly monotony in
Jimmie Dale's voice, as he tapped the paper with the muzzle of his
automatic. "This one is out of date."
"I don't know what you mean," faltered English Dick. "So help me, honest
to God, I don't!"
"Don't you!" There was a curious drawl in Jimmie Dale's voice--and then
in a flash his free hand swept across the table, jerked away the other's
moustache, and pushed the slouch hat up from the man's eyes.
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