“A story! What has a story got to do with this?” snapped Carling.
“The man has got a home,” said Jimmie Dale softly. “A home, and a wife—and a little baby girl.”
“Oh, that's the game then, eh? You want to plead for him?” Carling flung out gruffly. “Well, he should have thought of all that before! It's quite useless for you to bring it up. The man has had his chance already—a better chance than any one with his record ever had before. We took him into the bank knowing that he was an ex-convict, but believing that we could make an honest man of him—and this is the result.”
“And yet—”
“NO!” said Carling icily.
“You refuse—absolutely?” Jimmie Dale's voice had a lingering, wistful note in it.
“I refuse!” said Carling bluntly. “I won't have anything to do with it.”
There was just an instant's silence; and then, with a strange, slow, creeping motion, as a panther creeps when about to spring, Jimmie Dale projected his body across the desk—far across it toward the other. And the muscles of his jaw were quivering, his words rasping, choked with the sweep of fury that, held back so long, broke now in a passionate surge.
“And shall I tell you why you won't? Your bank was robbed to-night of one hundred thousand dollars. There are ten thousand here. THE OTHER NINETY THOUSAND ARE IN YOUR SAFE!”
“You lie!” Ashen to the lips, Carling had risen in his chair. “You lie!” he cried. “Do you hear! You lie! I tell you, you lie!”