Frank L. Packard

“ Softly, without a sound, Jimmie Dale opened the front door, entered, passed the old man, and went up the stairs. In his dressing room, he hid away the package that tomorrow, or at the first opportunity, would enrich some deserving charity, and, as silently as he had come up the stairs, he descended them again, passed by the old man again, and went out to the street once more. There was just one reason why Jason, tired out and asleep, sat there—only one—because Jason, old Jason, faithful, big-hearted Jason, loved his Master Jim. ”

“ And then, suddenly, halfway up the room, he dropped down behind what was evidently a jeweller's workbench. A whisper, obviously Laroque's this time, came once more from the inner room.
"Shoot the flash again!" And then, savagely: "Curse it, not on the ceiling! Can't you hold it steady! What the devil is the matter with you!"
There was no answer. A dull glimmer of light filtered through the doorway, but from the position in which he lay Jimmie Dale could distinguish nothing in the inner room itself.
"All right! That'll do!" Laroque growled presently. ”

“ The flashlight's ray flooded the interior of the open safe. Laroque, on his knees, laughed suddenly, and thrust his hand inside.
"What did I tell you, eh?" he chuckled. "I got the straight tip, eh? Four thousand, if there's a cent!"
Laroque began to remove what were evidently packages of banknotes from the safe—but Jimmie Dale was no longer watching the scene. He had edged suddenly back into the doorway of the hall, and was listening now intently. A footstep—he could have sworn he had caught the sound of a footstep—seemed to have come from just outside the front window. ”

“ We don't care. It's up to you. Either way suits us. And now—beat it!"
Jimmie Dale drew back for a second time that night into the hallway. A step, slow, faltering, unsteady, like that of a man blinded, passed out from the inner room, and passed on down the length of the front room—and the door opened and closed. Clarie Archman, with God alone knew what purpose in his heart, was gone. ”

“ There was silence in the room. Clarie Archman had dropped into a chair, and had buried his face in his arms that were out-flung across the table.
Then Laroque spoke again:
"Do you see where you stand—Clarie? Tell your story—and it's the story that sounds like a neat 'plant' of your lawyer's to get you off. You only get in deeper with the jury for trying to trick them, see? Here's the evidence—and it's got you cold. Sonnino recognises you. The letter is identified at the Sixth Avenue place, and you are identified as the guy that's been travelling under the name of Martin Moore. ”

“ And then Gentleman Laroque laughed gratingly.
"Hello, Sonnino!" he said coolly. "A little late, aren't you? You've kept me stalling for the last five minutes. Know my friend—Mr. Martin Moore, alias Mr. Clarie Archman? Clarie, this is Signor Niccolo Sonnino, the proprietor of this joint."
And then to Jimmie Dale, where before his mind had groped in darkness to reconcile apparently incongruous details, in a flash there came the light. The "plant" was a little more intricate, a little more cunning, a little more hellish—that was all! ”

“ You don't owe anybody any money—that bucket-shop was in the game with the rest, and—" Cries, voices, were coming from above now; and Jimmie Dale, like a flash, turned from the boy, leaped for the safe, wrenched the door open, reached in with both hands, and, snatching up an armful of the contents, spilled books and papers on the floor. He was back beside the boy in an instant. "Listen! You heard some one in here as you entered the house—you came into the room—you caught me in the act—you fired—you missed. And now—fight! Fight—pull yourself together—fight. They are coming!" ”

“ It is not wrong—no, certainly, it is not wrong. But at the same time the bank must not know. Very well! They shall not know—no one shall know. You are not the young Mr. Archman any more, you are—what is the name?—Martin Moore. But Martin Moore must have an address, eh? Very well! On Sixth Avenue there is a little store where one rents boxes for private mail, and where questions are never asked—is it not so, my very dear young friend?"
The boy was staring in a demented way into Sonnino's face, but he did not speak.
"Aw, hand it to him straight!" Gentleman Laroque broke in roughly. ”

“ He watched Sonnino perform the task with trembling fingers; and then, placing the package under his arm, Jimmie Dale backed to the door. There was a key in the lock on the inner side. He transferred it coolly to the outer side—and his voice rasped suddenly with the fury that found vent at last. "You are a pair of hell hounds," he said between his teeth; "but you are angels compared with the gang that hired you for this. Well, the game is up! David Archman will settle with them when they face the investigation—and I will settle with you! ”

“ He crossed the courtyard, and, reaching the line of door-stepless, poverty-stricken hovels—they appeared to be little more than that—crept stealthily along to the end house at the left, halted an instant to press his face against a black window pane, then tried the door cautiously. ”

“ He lowered his hands after a moment, and gazed around him unseeingly, a queer, ghastly look came into his face. "I—I guess—I guess there's only one—one way to—to beat them," he whispered. "One way to beat them, and——"
The package in Jimmie Dale's hand dropped suddenly to the floor, he wrenched the portières aside, and, with a low, sharp cry, sprang forward. The boy had taken a revolver from his pocket, and was lifting it to his head. Jimmie Dale struck up the other's hand—but in time only to deflect the shot; too late to prevent it being fired. ”

“ A young man who speculates, who uses an assumed name, and runs a private letter box on Sixth Avenue, and has forty-eight hours in which to square up his debts or face exposure, has a hell of a chance with a jury—not! ”