From the thin metal case, by means of the tiny tweezers, Jimmie Dale took out a gray seal, laid the seal on his handkerchief, folded the handkerchief carefully, placed it in his pocket—and crept forward toward the inner door again. The two men were bending over the table, over the money on the table, dividing it. Jimmie Dale’s lips were mercilessly thin; a fury, not the white, impetuous heat of passion, but a fury that was cold, deadly, implacable, possessed his soul. He crept nearer—still nearer.
“The crowd that put this up says we keep it between us for our work,” said Laroque shortly. “A third for you, the rest for me. You sure you put all they gave you in the safe—Niccolo?” He screwed up his eyes suspiciously. “You sure you ain’t trying to hold anything out on me? If you are, I’ll make you—”
The words died short on his lips—his jaw sagged helplessly.
Jimmie Dale was standing in the doorway.
“Niccolo, drop that revolver!” said Jimmie Dale softly. His automatic held a bead on the two men.
The revolver clattered to the table top. Neither of the men spoke—only their faces worked in a queer, convulsive sort of way, as they gazed in startled fascination at Jimmie Dale.
“Thank you!” said Jimmie Dale politely. He stepped briskly into the room, shoved Sonnino unceremoniously to one side, shoved his revolver muzzle none too gently into Laroque’s ribs, and went through the latter’s clothes. “Yes,” he said, “I thought quite possibly you might have one.” He pocketed Laroque’s revolver, and also Sonnino’s from the table. “And now that letter—thank you!” He whipped the letter from Laroque’s inside coat pocket and transferred it to his own, then stepped back, and smiled—but the smile was not inviting. “I’ve only about five minutes to spare,” murmured Jimmie Dale. “I’m in a hurry, Niccolo. I see some wrapping paper and string over there on top of the safe. Get it!”
The man obeyed mechanically, in a stupefied sort of way, and placed several of the sheets and a quantity of string upon the table. Laroque, silent, sullen, under the spell of Jimmie Dale’s automatic, watched the proceedings without a word.
“Now,” said Jimmie Dale, and an icy note began to creep into the velvet tones, “you two are going to make the first charitable contribution you ever made in your lives—say, to one of the city hospitals. Make as neat and as small a parcel of that money as you can, Niccolo.”
“Not by a damned sight!” Laroque roared out suddenly. “Who the blazes are you! Curse you, I—” He shrank hastily back before the ominous outthrust of Jimmie Dale’s automatic.