Jimmie Dale picked it up, and read it. It was all there, all of it--and
the signature this time was not forged! He placed the paper in the
satchel, and closed the satchel.
English Dick passed his hand across a forehead that beaded with
perspiration.
"What are you going to do?" he asked under his breath.
"I'm going to see that this--and you--reaches the hands of the police,"
said Jimmie Dale tersely. "We'll leave here in a moment--by the window.
There's a patrolman who passes the end of the lane once in a while, and
I expect, with the aid of a piece of cord and a pocket handkerchief as a
gag, that he'll find you there. My method may be a little crude, but I
have reasons of my own for not walking into a police station with you.
but before we go, there's still that matter of--the men higher up. They
needed a clever penman for this job and one who wouldn't be
recognised--and they got the best! Who brought you over from England?"
"A friend over there, one of the 'swell ones,' put it up to me," English
Dick answered heavily.
"Yes--and here?" prodded Jimmie Dale. "Who got you into the bank here?"
"I don't know." English Dick shook his head.
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