"Not so very!"
Stangeist, finished with the packages, picked up the loose bills, and,
with a short laugh, tossed them into the bag and followed them with the
rolls of silver. He pushed the bag toward Clarie Deane.
"That's a little extra for you," he said. "The trouble with you fellows
is that you don't know when you're well off--but the sooner you find it
out the better, unless you want another lesson like yesterday." He made
the addition on the pad. "Fifteen thousand, eight hundred dollars," he
announced softly. "That's seven thousand, nine hundred for the three of
you to divide, less five hundred from The Mope."
Clarie Deane's eyes narrowed. His hands were on his knees, hidden by the
desk.
"There's more'n twenty there," he said sullenly--and drew a match across
the under edge of the desk with a long, crackling noise.
Stangeist's face lost its suavity, a snarl curled his lips; but, about
to reply, he sprang suddenly to his feet instead, his head turned
sharply toward the door.
"What's that!" he said hoarsely. "It's not the servants, they wouldn't
dare to--"
Stangeist's words ended in a gulp. He was staring into the muzzle of a
heavy-calibered revolver that Clarie Deane had jerked up from under the
desk.
"You sit down, or I'll blow your block off!" said Clarie Deane, with a
sudden leer.
It happened then almost before Jimmie Dale could grasp the details;
before even Clarie Deane himself could interfere.
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