"Good morning, Dyckman," said the tyrant, pushing aside the papers on his desk. "You have brought the books? Sit down at that table and open the ledger at the company's expense account for the year. I wish to make a few comparisons," and he took a thick packet of papers from a pigeonhole of the small iron safe behind his chair.
Dyckman was unbuckling the shawl-strap in which he had carried the two heavy books, but at the significant command he desisted, went swiftly to the door opening into the stenographer's room, satisfied himself that there were no listeners, and resumed his chair.
"You have cut out some of the preface, Mr. Gordon; I'll cut out the remainder," he said, moistening his dry lips. "You have the true record of the expense account in that package. I'm down and out; what is it you want?"
The inexorable one at the desk did not keep him in suspense.
"I want a written confession of just what you did, and what you did it for," was the direct reply. "You'll find Miss Ackerman's type-writer in the other room; I'll wait while you put it in type."
The bookkeeper's lips were dryer than before, and his tongue was like a stick in his mouth when he said:
"You're not giving me a show, Mr. Gordon; the poor show a common murderer would have in any court of law. You are asking me to convict myself."
Gordon held up the packet of papers.
"Here is your conviction, Mr. Dyckman—the original leaves taken from those books when you had them re-bound. I need your statement of the facts for quite another purpose."
"And if I refuse to make it? A cornered rat will fight for his life, Mr. Gordon."