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. J. Barca has flown the coop and can’t be found, and—well, I guess you get it, don’t you?”
“What—what do you want?” The boy did not lift his head.
“We want your father to let up, and let up damned quick,” said Laroque evenly. “But we’ll give you a chance to get out from under, and you can take it or leave it—it doesn’t matter to us. Your father’s got the papers and the affidavits in the ‘Private Club’ case in his safe at home to-night, and a lot of those affidavits he can never replace—we’ve seen to that! All right! You’ve got the combination of the safe. Go home and get that stuff and bring it here. If it’s here by four o’clock—that gives you about three hours—you’re out of it. If it isn’t, then your father gets inside information that the gang is wise to the fact that his son pulled a break tonight, but that they can keep Sonnino’s mouth shut if he throws up the sponge, and that if he doesn’t call it off with the ‘Private Club Ring,’ if he’s so blamed fond of prosecuting, he’ll get a chance to prosecute his own son—as a thief!”
The boy did not move.
“And just one last word,” added Laroque sharply. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking that if you refuse to get the affidavits it puts a crimp in us. It’s only because we’re playing white with you, and to give you a chance, that you’re getting any choice at all. We didn’t intend to give you one, but we don’t want to be too rough on you, so if you want to get out that way, and will agree to keep on queering your father’s game if he starts it over again, all right. But you want to understand that we hold just as big a club over your father’s head the other way.”
“White! Playing white! Oh, my God!” Clarie Archman had lurched up from the chair to his feet. His face, haggard and drawn, was the face of one damned.
“Good-night!” said Laroque callously. “You know the way out! You’ve got till four o’clock. If you’re not back here then—” He shrugged his shoulders significantly. “You see, I’m not even asking you what you are going to do. 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.