A glance at the paper, and Jimmie Dale’s eyes lifted again—­to sweep the floor of the room.  He pointed to a pile of books and documents in one corner that had been thrown out of the safe.

“Go over there and pick up that check book!” he ordered tersely.

“What for?” Mittel made feeble protest.

“Never mind what for!” snapped Jimmie Dale.  “Go and get it—­and hurry!”

Once more Mittel obeyed—­and dropped the book hesitantly on the desk.

Jimmie Dale stared silently, insolently, contemptuously at the other.

Mittel stirred uneasily, sat down, shifted his feet, and his fingers fumbled aimlessly over the top of the desk.

“Compared with you,” said Jimmie Dale, in a low voice, “the Weasel, ay, and Hamvert, too, crooks though they are, are gentlemen!  Michael Breen, as he died, told his wife to take that paper to some one she could trust, who would help her and tell her what to do; and, knowing no one to go to, but because she scrubbed your floors and therefore thought you were a fine gentleman, she came timidly to you, and trusted you—­you cur!”

Jimmie Dale laughed suddenly—­not pleasantly.  Mittel shivered.

“Hamvert and Breen were partners out there in Alaska when Breen first went out,” said Jimmie Dale slowly, pulling the tin can wrapped in oilskin from his pocket.  “Hamvert swindled Breen out of the one strike he made, and Mrs. Breen and her little girl back here were reduced to poverty.  The amount of that swindle was, I understand, fifteen thousand dollars.  I have ten of it here, contributed by the Weasel and Hamvert; and you will, I think, recognise therein a certain element of poetic justice—­but I am still short five thousand dollars.”

Jimmie Dale removed the cover from the tin can.  Mittel gazed at the contents numbly.

“You perhaps did not hear me?” prompted Jimmie Dale coldly.  “I am still short five thousand dollars.”

Mittel circled his lips with the tip of his tongue.

“What do you want?” he whispered hoarsely.

“The balance of the amount.”  There was an ominous quiet in Jimmie Dale’s voice.  “A check payable to Mrs. Michael Breen for five thousand dollars.”

“I—­I haven’t got that much in the bank,” Mittel fenced, stammering.

“No?  Then I should advise you to see that you have by ten o’clock to-morrow morning!” returned Jimmie Dale curtly.  “Make out that check!”

Mittel hesitated.  The revolver edged insistently a little farther across the desk—­and Mittel, picking up a pen, wrote feverishly.  He tore the check from its stub, and, with a snarl, pushed it toward Jimmie Dale.

“Fold it!” instructed Jimmie Dale, in the same curt tones.  “And fold that diagram with it.  Put them both in this box.  Thank you!” He wrapped the oilskin around the box again, and returned the box to his pocket.  And again with that insolent, contemptuous stare, he surveyed the man at the desk—­then he backed to the French windows.  “It might be as well to remind you, Mittel,” he cautioned sternly, “that if for any reason this check is not honoured, whether through lack of funds or an attempt by you to stop payment, you’ll be in a cell in the Tombs to-morrow for this night’s work—­that is quite understood, isn’t it?”