Of course, there are a dozen
other points of similarity equally indisputable, but--"
Jimmie Dale stopped. Clayton was on his feet--rocking on his feet. His
face was deathlike in its pallor. Moisture was oozing from his forehead.
"I didn't do it! I didn't do it!" he cried out wildly. "My God, I tell
you, I DIDN'T do it--and--and--that would send me to the chair."
"Yes," said Jimmie Dale coldly, "and that's precisely where you're
going--to the chair."
The man was beside himself now--racked to the soul by a paroxysm of
fear.
"I'm innocent--innocent!" he screamed out. "Oh, for God's sake, don't
send an innocent man to his death. It WAS Stace Morse. Listen! Listen!
I'll tell the truth." He was clawing with his hands, piteously, over the
desk at Jimmie Dale. "When the big rewards came out last week I stole
one of the gray seals from the bunch at headquarters to--to use it the
first time any crime was committed when I was sure I could lay my hands
on the man who did it. Don't you see? Of course he'd deny he was the
Gray Seal, just as he'd deny that he was guilty--but I'd have the
proof both ways and--and I'd collect the rewards, and--and--" The man
collapsed into the chair.
Carruthers was up from his seat, his hands gripping tight on the edge of
the desk as he leaned over it.
"Jimmie--Jimmie--what does this mean?" he gasped out.
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