Let me see, Weasel--it was Tuesday night, two nights ago; wasn't
it, that a trifling break in Maiden Lane at Thorold and Sons disturbed
the police? It was a three-year job for even a first offender, ten
for one already on nodding terms with the police and fifteen to twenty
for--well, say, for a man like you, Weasel--IF HE WERE CAUGHT! Am I
making myself quite plain?"
The colour in the Weasel's cheeks faded a little--his eyes were holding
in sudden fascination upon Jimmie Dale.
"I see that I am," observed Jimmie Dale pleasantly. "I said, 'if he were
caught,' you will remember. I am going to leave this room in a moment,
Weasel, and leave it entirely to your discretion as to whether you will
think it wise or not to stir from that chair for ten minutes after
I shut the door. And now"--Jimmie Dale nonchalantly replaced his
handkerchief in his pocket, nonchalantly followed it with the banknotes
which he picked up from the table--and smiled.
With a gasp, both men had strained forward, and were staring, wild-eyed,
at the gray seal stuck between them on the tabletop.
"The Gray Seal!" whispered the Weasel, and his tongue circled his lips.
Jimmie Dale shrugged his shoulders.
"That WAS a bit theatrical, Weasel," he said apologetically; "and yet
not wholly unnecessary. You will recall Stangeist, The Mope, Australian
Ike, and Clarie Deane, and can draw your own inference as to what might
happen in the Thorold affair if you should be so ill-advised as to force
my hand.
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