“The inside pocket of the vest, Thorold,” suggested Jimmie Dale coldly.
With a malicious snort, Thorold unbuttoned his vest, and turned the pocket out. There was nothing in it.
Jimmie Dale nodded complacently.
“My mistake, Thorold,” he murmured apologetically. “Go on!”
The man continued to denude himself of his effects, but with increasing savagery and reluctance. There was silence in the room—and then suddenly, so faint as to be almost inaudible, there was a soft pat upon the floor. Jimmie Dale did not turn his head.
“I think you dropped something, Jake,” he observed pleasantly. “Now take your foot off it, and put it on the table!”
A miserable smile twisting his lips, old Jake stooped, picked up a roll of bills, and, mumbling and crooning to himself, laid it on the table. Jimmie Dale immediately transferred it to his pocket.
“Yes,” he said, “I certainly seem to be in luck tonight! That all you got, Thorold?” He reached forward, and possessed himself of a well-filled wallet that Thorold had added to the heterogeneous collection in front of him.
Thorold’s face was black with fury.
“There’s the watch, you cheap poke-getter!” he choked. “Don’t forget to frisk that while you’re at it!”