"No,
no, Isaac, I didn't mean that. Only, for God's sake be merciful! It is
not only the risk of the penitentiary; it's more than that. I--I tried
to play white all my life, and until that cursed night there's no man
living could say I haven't. You know that--you know that, Isaac. I tell
you I couldn't do it this afternoon--I tell you I couldn't. I tried to
and--and I couldn't."
Jimmie Dale was lying flat on the little landing now, peering into the
room. Back a short distance from the doorway, a repulsive-looking
little man in unkempt clothes and soiled linen, with yellowish-skinned,
parchment face, out of which small black eyes shone cunningly and
shrewdly, sat at a bare deal table in a rickety chair; facing him across
the table stood a young man of not more than twenty-five, clean cut,
well dressed, but whose face was unnaturally white now, and whose hand,
as he extended it in a pleading gesture toward the other, trembled
visibly. Jimmie Dale's hand made its way quietly to his side pocket and
extracted his automatic.
Old Isaac humped his shoulders, and leered at his visitor.
"We talk a great deal, my young friend. What is the use? A bargain is
a bargain. A few rubies in exchange for your life. A few rubies and my
mouth is shut. Otherwise"--he humped his shoulders again. "Well?"
Burton drew back, swept his hand in a dazed way across his eyes--and
laughed out suddenly in bitter mirth.
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