cumstances, it is quite impossible that you should have stolen the money yourself, and
"I didn't," said Jimmie Dale. "I found it hidden in the home of one of your employees."
"You found it—where?"
"In Moyne's home—up in Harlem."
"Moyne, eh?" Carling was alert, quick now, jerking out his words. "How did you come to get into this, then? His pal? Double-crossing him, eh? I suppose you want a reward—we'll attend to that, of course. You're wiser than you know, my man. That's what we suspected. We've had the detectives trailing Moyne all evening." He reached forward over the desk for the telephone. "I'll telephone headquarters to make the arrest at once."
"Just a minute," interposed Jimmie Dale gravely. "I want you to listen to a little story first."
"A story! What has a story got to do with this?" snapped Carling.
"The man has got a home," said Jimmie Dale softly. "A home, and a wife—and a little baby girl."
"Oh, that's the game then, eh? You want to plead for him?" Carling flung out gruffly. "Well, he should have thought of all that before! It's quite useless for you to bring it up. The man has had his chance already—a better chance than any one with his record ever had before. took him into the bank knowing that he was an ex-convict, but believing that we could make an honest man of him—and this is the result."
"And yet"
"No!" said Carling icily.
"You refuse—absolutely?" Jimmie Dale's voice had a lingering, wistful note in it.
"I refuse!" said Carling bluntly. "I won't have anything to do with it."
There was just an instant's silence; and then, with a strange, slow, creeping motion, as a panther creeps when about to spring, Jimmie Dale projected his body across the desk—far across it toward the other. And the muscles of his
