“QUICK!” Jimmie Dale flung out the word in a sharp, peremptory bark. “Do you need to be told that the CARTRIDGES are dry?”
Mittel's hand, trembling, went into his pocket and produced an envelope.
“Open it!” commanded Jimmie Dale. “And lay it on the desk, so that I can read it—I am too wet to touch it.”
Mittel obeyed—like a dog that has been whipped.
A glance at the paper, and Jimmie Dale's eyes lifted again—to sweep the floor of the room. He pointed to a pile of books and documents in one corner that had been thrown out of the safe.
“Go over there and pick up that check book!” he ordered tersely.
“What for?” Mittel made feeble protest.
“Never mind what for!” snapped Jimmie Dale. “Go and get it—and HURRY!”
Once more Mittel obeyed—and dropped the book hesitantly on the desk.
Jimmie Dale stared silently, insolently, contemptuously at the other.