On his hands and knees, protected from the possibility of another bullet by the height of the sill, Jimmie Dale, quick in every movement now, dragged the inert form toward the table away from the window, and bent hurriedly over the other.  A minute perhaps he stayed there—­and then rose slowly.

Burton, horror-stricken, unmanned, beside himself, was hanging, clutching with both hands at the table edge.

“He’s dead,” said Jimmie Dale laconically.

Burton flung out his hands.

“Dead!” he whispered hoarsely.  “I—­I think I’m going mad.  Three days of hell—­and now this.  We’d—­we’d better get out of here quick—­they’ll get us if—­”

Jimmie Dale’s hand fell with a tight grip on Burton’s shoulder.

“There won’t be any more shots fired—­pull yourself together!”

Burton stared at him in a demented way.

“What’s—­what’s it mean?” he stammered.

“It means that I didn’t put two and two together,” said Jimmie Dale a little bitterly.  “It means that there’s a dozen crooks been dancing old Isaac’s tune for a long time—­and that some of them have got him at last.”

Burton reached out suddenly and clutched Jimmie Dale’s arm.

“Then I’m safe!” He mumbled the words, but there was dawning hope, relief in his white face.  “Safe!  I’m safe—­if you’ll only give me back those stones.  Give them back to me, for God’s sake give them back to me!  You don’t know—­you don’t understand.  I stole them because—­because he made me—­because I—­it was the only chance I had.  Oh, my God, you don’t know what the last three days have been!  Give them back to me, won’t you—­won’t you?  You—­you don’t know!”

“Don’t lose your nerve!” said Jimmie Dale sharply.  “Sit down!” He pushed the other into the chair.  “There’s no one will disturb us here for some time at least.  What is it that I don’t know?  That three nights ago you were in a gambling hell, Sagosto’s, to be exact, one of the most disreputable in New York—­and you went there on the invitation of a stray acquaintance, a man named Perley—­shall I describe him for you?  A short, slim-built man, black eyes, red hair, beard, and—­”

“You know that!” The misery, the hopelessness was back in Burton’s face again—­and suddenly he bent over the table and buried his head in his outflung arms.

There was silence for a moment.  Tight-lipped, Jimmie Dale’s eyes travelled from Burton’s shaking shoulders to the motionless form on the floor.  Then he spoke again: 

“You’re a bit of a rounder, Burton, but I think you’ve had a lesson that will last you all your life.  You were half-drunk when you and Perley began to hobnob over a downtown bar.  He said he’d show you some real life, and you went with him to Sagosto’s.  He gave you a revolver before you went in, and told you the place wasn’t safe for an unarmed man.  He introduced you to Sagosto, the proprietor, and you were shown to a back