“You cur!” whispered Jimmie Dale.  “There’s just one reason, only one, that keeps me from putting a bullet through you while you sit there.  We’ll get to that in a moment.  There is that little story first—­shall I tell it to you now?  For the past four years, and God knows how many before that, you’ve gone the pace.  The lavishness of this bachelor establishment of yours is common talk in New York—­far in excess of a bank cashier’s salary.  But you were supposed to be a wealthy man in your own right; and so, in reality you were—­once.  But you went through your fortune two years ago.  Counted a model citizen, an upright man, an honour to the community—­what were you, Carling?  What are you?  Shall I tell you?  Roue, gambler, leading a double life of the fastest kind.  You did it cleverly, Carling; hid it well—­but your game is up.  To-night, for instance, you are at the end of your tether, swamped with debts, exposure threatening you at any moment.  Why don’t you tell me again that I lie—­Carling?”

But now the man made no answer.  He had sunk a little deeper in his chair—­a dawning look of terror in the eyes that held, fascinated, on Jimmie Dale.

“You cur!” said Jimmie Dale again.  “You cur, with your devil’s work!  A year ago you saw this night coming—­when you must have money, or face ruin and exposure.  You saw it then, a year ago, the day that Moyne, concealing nothing of his prison record, applied through friends for a position in the bank.  Your co-officials were opposed to his appointment, but you, do you remember how you pleaded to give the man his chance—­and in your hellish ingenuity saw your way then out of the trap!  An ex-convict from Sing Sing!  It was enough, wasn’t it?  What chance had he!” Jimmie Dale paused, his left hand clenched until the skin formed whitish knobs over the knuckles.

Carling’s tongue sought his lips, made a circuit of them—­and he tried to speak, but his voice was an incoherent muttering.

“I’ll not waste words,” said Jimmie Dale, in his grim monotone.  “I’m not sure enough myself—­that I could keep my hands off you much longer.  The actual details of how you stole the money to-day do not matter—­now.  A little later perhaps in court—­but not now.  You were the last to leave the bank, but before leaving you pretended to discover the theft of a hundred thousand dollars—­that, done up in a paper parcel, was even then reposing in your desk.  You brought the parcel home, put it in that safe there—­and notified the president of the bank by telephone from here of the robbery, suggesting that police headquarters be advised at once.  He told you to go ahead and act as you saw best.  You notified the police, speciously directing suspicion to—­the ex-convict in the bank’s employ.  You knew Moyne was dining out to-night, you knew where—­and at a hint from you the police took up the trail.  A little later in the evening, you took these two packages of banknotes from the rest, and with this