The Further Adventures of Jimmie Dale by Frank L. (Frank Lucius) Packard
page 62 of 348 (17%)
page 62 of 348 (17%)
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and closed the door behind him.
Save for a dim light that filtered out through the half open door of the inner room, it was dark here. Slowly, with that almost uncanny, silent tread that he had acquired on the creaky, rickety stairs of the old Sanctuary, Jimmie Dale began to move forward, the weight of his body wholly and firmly on one foot before the other was lifted from the floor; and, as he advanced, the black silk mask, from a pocket in the leather girdle, was drawn over his face. He could see them now quite plainly--the twisted, crunched-up form of old Jake, with his tawny-bearded face, and narrow, shifting little black eyes; the smooth-shaven, suave, oily, cunning countenance of Thorold, the super-crook. Both were sitting at a table in the miserly appointed room, whose only other articles of furniture were a cheap iron bed and a few chairs. Old Jake was whining; Thorold's voice held an angry rasp. "Four thousand, you cursed miser, and not a cent less," Thorold was saying. "Three," whined the other. "You ain't splitting fair. I got to take the stones out of their setting, and sell 'em for what I can get. Stolen stuff's got to go cheap. You know that." "It's worth ten or twelve, and you'll get at least eight for it," growled Thorold. "That's four apiece--and I've got to split mine again with the guy that pinched it. Hurry up, d'yer hear--I've got a date with him in half an hour over in my office." "Ha, ha!" cackled old Jake. "Are you trying to be funny? All the thief |
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