And you took it,
you cur"--Jimmie Dale's voice choked suddenly--"not only at the expense
of a man's life, but of his good name and reputation. You might have
known, I do not know whether you did or not, that Forrester had some
private trouble with a money lender, but I do not imagine that had
anything to do with your having selected Forrester's bank. Your object
was to exploit a small bank where, with only one man from whom to hide
your work, you could loot it thoroughly; and a forged confession clever
enough to deceive any one in its handwriting and signature, and the man
found dead from a dose of prussic acid, the empty bottle on the floor
beside him, needed no other evidence to stamp him as the guilty man."
English Dick was struggling to his feet; his eyes, in a sort of horrible
fascination, on Jimmie Dale.
Jimmie Dale, pushed him savagely back into his seat. "Yes--you cur!" he
said again. "You got your first fright when you found those evidences of
suicide were gone--you even lost your nerve a little in your bluff with
the bank examiners--and you hurried here the moment you could get away
from the preliminary police investigation that followed--I was even
afraid you might get here a little sooner than you did.
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