“You lie!” said Clarie Deane again. “It's in that safe. The Mope heard you tell the girl in yer office that if anything happened to you she was ter wise up the district attorney that there was a paper in your safe at home fer him that was important. Now then, you beat it over ter that safe, an' open it up—we'll give you a minute ter do it in.”
“The paper's not there, I tell you,” said Stangeist once more.
“That's all right,” submitted Clarle Deane grimly. “There's a quarter of that minute gone.”
“I won't!” Stangeist flashed out violently.
“That's all right,” repeated Clarie Deane. “There's half of that minute gone.”
Jimmie Dale's eyes, in a fascinated sort of way, were on Stangeist. The man's face was twitching now, moisture began to ooze from his forehead, as the callous brutality of the scowling faces seemed to get him—and then he lurched suddenly forward in his chair.
“My God!” he cried out, a ring of terror in his voice “What do you mean to do? You'll pay for it! They'll get you! The servants will be back in a minute.”
“Two skirts!” jeered Clarie Deane. “We ain't goin' ter run away from them. If they comes before we goes, we'll fix 'em. That minute's up!”
Stangeist licked his lips with his tongue.
“Suppose—suppose I refuse?” he said hoarsely.