"Write it--all of it--your own
share--Reddy Mull's--the whole story!"
The man's lips seemed to have gone dry again, and again and again his
tongue circled them.
"I can't!" he said hoarsely. "I daren't--they'd kill me. And--and if
they didn't, it would send me up, and perhaps--perhaps to the chair."
"You take your chances on that"--Jimmie Dale's voice was low and
even--"but you take no chances here--for there are none." The automatic
in Jimmie Dale's hand edged ominously forward. "It's Forrester's
exoneration--or you. Do you understand? And you make your
choice--_now_."
For an instant the man's eyes met Jimmie Dale's, then shifted, as though
drawn in spite of himself, to the muzzle of Jimmie Dale's automatic; and
then his hand reached into his pocket for his pen.
From the pool room in front came an outburst of hand-clapping and
applause--there was evidently a match of some kind going on. Jimmie
Dale, his eyes on English Dick, as the latter began to write with a sort
of feverish haste as though fear and a miserable desire to have done
with it spurred him on, picked up the articles from the table, and
placed them in the satchel. He waited silently then--and then English
Dick pushed the paper toward him.
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