"Sit down, Mr. Mittel," he invited pleasantly. "It will be quite
apparent to you that I have not time to prolong our interview
unnecessarily, in view of the possible return of the police at any
moment, but you might as well be comfortable. You will pardon me again
if I take another liberty"--he crossed the room, turned the key in the
lock of the door leading into the hall, and returned to the desk. "Sit
down, Mr. Mittel!" he repeated, a sudden rasp in his voice.
Mittel, none too graciously, now seated himself.
"Look here, my fine fellow," he burst out, "you're carrying things with
a pretty high hand, aren't you? You seem to have eluded the police for
the moment, somehow, but let me tell you I--"
"No," interrupted Jimmie Dale softly, "let ME tell you--all there is
to be told." He leaned over the desk and stared rudely at the bruise on
Mittel's face. "Rather a nasty crack, that," he remarked.
Mittel's fists clenched, and an angry flush swept his cheeks.
"I'd have made it a good deal harder," said Jimmie Dale, with sudden
insolence, "if I hadn't been afraid of putting you out of business and
so precluding the possibility of this little meeting. Now then"--the
revolver swung upward and held steadily on a line with Mittel's eyes--
"I'll trouble you for the diagram of that Alaskan claim that belongs to
Mrs. Michael Breen!"
Mittel, staring fascinated into the little, round, black muzzle of the
automatic, edged back in his chair.
Pages:
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343