And now voices reached him—­one, excited, nervous, as though the speaker were labouring under mental strain that bordered closely on the hysterical; the other, curiously mingling a querulousness with an attempt to pacify, but dominantly contemptuous, sneering, cold.

Jimmie Dale moved along the hall—­very slowly—­without a sound—­testing each step before he threw his body weight from one leg to the other.  He reached the foot of the stairs.  The Tocsin had been right; it was a very short flight.  He counted the steps—­there were eight.  Above, facing him, a door was open.  The voices were louder now.  It was a sordid-looking room, what he could see of it, poverty-stricken in its appearance, intentionally so probably for effect, with no attempt whatever at furnishing.  He could see through the doorway to the window that opened on the alleyway, or, rather, just glimpse the top of the window at an angle across the room—­that and a bare stretch of floor.  The two men were not in the line of vision.

Burton’s voice—­it was unquestionably Burton speaking—­came to Jimmie Dale now distinctly.

“No, I didn’t!  I tell you, I didn’t!  I—­I hadn’t the nerve.”

Jimmie Dale slipped his black silk mask over his face; and with extreme caution, on hands and knees, began to climb the stairs.

“So!” It was old Isaac now, in a half purr, half sneer.  “And I was so sure, my young friend, that you had.  I was so sure that you were not such a fool.  Yes; I could even have sworn that they were in your pocket now—­what?  It is too bad—­too bad!  It is not a pleasant thing to think of, that little chair up the river in its horrible little room where—­”

“For God’s sake, Isaac—­not that!  Do you hear—­not that!  My God, I didn’t mean to—­I didn’t know what I was doing!”

Jimmie Dale crept up another step, another, and another.  There was silence for a moment in the room; then Burton again, hoarse-voiced: 

“Isaac, I’ll make good to you some other way.  I swear I will—­I swear it!  If I’m caught at this I’ll—­I’ll get fifteen years for it.”

“And which would you rather have?” Jimmie Dale could picture the oily smirk, the shrug of his shoulders, the outthrust hands, palms upward, elbows in at the hips, the fingers curved and wide apart—­“fifteen years, or what you get—­for murder?  Eh, my friend, you have thought of that—­eh?  It is a very little price I ask—­yes?”

“Damn you!” Burton’s voice was shrill, then dropped to a half sob.  “No, no, Isaac, I didn’t mean that.  Only, for God’s sake be merciful!  It is not only the risk of the penitentiary; it’s more than that.  I—­I tried to play white all my life, and until that cursed night there’s no man living could say I haven’t.  You know that—­you know that, Isaac.  I tell you I couldn’t do it this afternoon—­I tell you I couldn’t.  I tried to and—­and I couldn’t.”