out the white, pulsing, triangular scar on the man's forehead.

"So you're up to your old tricks again, are you, Birdie?" he inquired
coldly. "Five years up the river wasn't enough for you--eh?"

The man drew himself up suddenly, and, squaring his shoulders, made
as though to speak--and then, with a swift, hopeless gesture,
turned his back, and, leaning over the top of the safe, buried his
head in his arms.

A strange smile touched Jimmie Dale's lips. He stooped down, picked up
the revolver from the floor, slipped it into his pocket, bent over
Slimmy Jack for an instant to assure himself that the man was
dead--then stepping back to the safe, he laid his hand on the
ex-convict's shoulder.

"Birdie," he said quietly, "could you open this safe if you wanted to?"

The man swung sharply around, the prison pallor of his face a pitiful,
deathlike colour in the flashlight's rays.

"Who are you?" he asked thickly.

"A friend perhaps--if you can open that safe," Jimmie Dale answered.

A puzzled look crept into Birdie's eyes.

"W-what do you mean?" he stammered.

"I mean that I want the _proof_ that you are straight," Jimmie Dale said