What would his denials, his protestations
of innocence count for? He was an ex-convict, a hardened criminal caught
red-handed with a portion of the proceeds of robbery--he had succeeded
in hiding the remainder of it too cleverly, that was all."
Carling's face was ghastly. His hands went out again--again his tongue
moistened his dry lips. He whispered:
"Isn't--isn't there some--some way we can fix this?"
And then Jimmie Dale laughed--not pleasantly.
"Yes, there's a way, Carling," he said grimly. "That's why I'm here." He
picked up a sheet of writing paper and pushed it across the desk--then a
pen, which he dipped into the inkstand, and extended to the other. "The
way you'll fix it will be to write out a confession exonerating Moyne."
Carling shrank back into his chair, his head huddling into his
shoulders.
"NO!" he cried. "I won't--I can't--my God!--I--I--WON'T!"
The automatic in Jimmie Dale's hand edged forward the fraction of an
inch.
"I have not used this--yet. You understand now why--don't you?" he said
under his breath.
"No, no!" Carling pushed away the pen. "I'm ruined--ruined as it is. But
this would mean the penitentiary, too--"
"Where you tried to send an innocent man in your place, you hound; where
you--"
"Some other way--some other way!" Carling was babbling. "Let me out of
this--for God's sake, let me out of this!"
"Carling," said Jimmie Dale hoarsely, "I stood beside a little bed
to-night and looked at a baby girl--a little baby girl with golden hair,
who smiled as she slept.
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