“You hold your tongue!” There was a sudden snarl in Jimmie Dale’s low tones. The man’s voice was rising dangerously loud. “I’ll attend to you in a moment!” He swung on Thorold again; and, with his pistol pressed close against the man, felt deftly and swiftly over the other in search of weapons. He laughed tersely, finding none. “Empty your pockets out on the table!” he ordered curtly.
The man hesitated.
Jimmie Dale smiled—unpleasantly.
Thorold swept a bead of sweat from his forehead. His lips were working nervously. All suavity and polish were gone now; there were only viciousness and fear, each struggling with the other for the mastery in the man’s smug face.
“Damn you, you blasted snitch!” he burst out furiously. “We’ll get you down here some day, and—”
“Some day, perhaps,” said Jimmie Dale softly. “But to-night—did I explain that I was in a hurry—Thorold! Every pocket inside out, please!”
Thorold’s hand went reluctantly to his pockets. He began with the inside pocket of his coat, laying a pile of letters and papers on the table.
“Anything there you want?” he sneered.
“Go on!” prompted Jimmie Dale.
From vest pockets came a varied assortment of articles—watch, cigars, a cigar-cutter, a silver-mounted pencil, and a fountain pen. The man’s hands travelled to his outside coat pockets.