"What--what d'ye mean by that, Slimmy!" he exclaimed in a startled way.

"I'll show you what I mean, and I'll show you blamed quick if you don't
open that safe!" Slimmy Jack threatened hoarsely. "Blast you, you're
stalling on me--that's what you're doing! I've seen you work before.
You could open that thing with your finger nails, if you wanted to!
Now, open it!"

"But, I can't!" protested Birdie Lee. "I wouldn't hand you anything like
that, Slimmy--you know that, Slimmy. I--"

"_Open it!_ And open it--_quick_!" Slimmy Jack's hand was wrenching at
his side pocket.

"But, I tell you, I can't, Slimmy!" cried Birdie Lee, almost piteously.
"It's queered me up there in the pen. I"--he was rising to his
feet--"Slimmy--for God's, sake--what are you doing--you--"

There was a flash, the roar of the report, a swaying form, a revolver
clattering to the floor--and with a crash Slimmy Jack pitched forward
and lay motionless.

Then silence.

It had come without warning, in the winking of an eye, and for a moment
it seemed to Jimmie Dale that he could not grasp the full significance
of what had happened--that Slimmy Jack, his sleeve catching on the hinge
of the safe as he had finally succeeded in jerking his revolver from his
pocket, had, a grim, ironical trick of fate, accidentally shot himself!
Mechanically, automatically, Jimmie Dale's hands went to his pockets and