"
Jimmie Dale removed the cover from the tin can. Mittel gazed at the
contents numbly.
"You perhaps did not hear me?" prompted Jimmie Dale coldly. "I am still
short five thousand dollars."
Mittel circled his lips with the tip of his tongue.
"What do you want?" he whispered hoarsely.
"The balance of the amount." There was an ominous quiet in Jimmie
Dale's voice. "A check payable to Mrs. Michael Breen for five thousand
dollars."
"I--I haven't got that much in the bank," Mittel fenced, stammering.
"No? Then I should advise you to see that you have by ten o'clock
to-morrow morning!" returned Jimmie Dale curtly. "Make out that check!"
Mittel hesitated. The revolver edged insistently a little farther across
the desk--and Mittel, picking up a pen, wrote feverishly. He tore the
check from its stub, and, with a snarl, pushed it toward Jimmie Dale.
"Fold it!" instructed Jimmie Dale, in the same curt tones. "And fold
that diagram with it. Put them both in this box. Thank you!" He wrapped
the oilskin around the box again, and returned the box to his pocket.
And again with that insolent, contemptuous stare, he surveyed the man at
the desk--then he backed to the French windows. "It might be as well to
remind you, Mittel," he cautioned sternly, "that if for any reason this
check is not honoured, whether through lack of funds or an attempt by
you to stop payment, you'll be in a cell in the Tombs to-morrow for this
night's work--that is quite understood, isn't it?"
Mittel was on his feet--sweat glistened on his forehead.
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