"Sit down, Mr.Mittel!" he repeated, a sudden rasp in his voice.
Mittel, none too graciously, now seated himself.
"Look here, my fine fellow," he burst out, "you're carrying things with a pretty high hand, aren't you?
You seem to have eluded the police for the moment, somehow, but let me tell you I--" "No," interrupted Jimmie Dale softly, "let ME tell you--all there is to be told." He leaned over the desk and stared rudely at the bruise on Mittel's face.

"Rather a nasty crack, that," he remarked.
Mittel's fists clenched, and an angry flush swept his cheeks.
"I'd have made it a good deal harder," said Jimmie Dale, with sudden insolence, "if I hadn't been afraid of putting you out of business and so precluding the possibility of this little meeting.

Now then"-- the revolver swung upward and held steadily on a line with Mittel's eyes-- "I'll trouble you for the diagram of that Alaskan claim that belongs to Mrs.Michael Breen!" Mittel, staring fascinated into the little, round, black muzzle of the automatic, edged back in his chair.
"So--so that's what you're after, is it ?" he jerked out.

"Well"-- he laughed unnaturally and waved his hand at the disarray of the room--"it's been stolen already." "I know that," said Jimmie Dale grimly.

"By--YOU!" "Me!" Mittel started up in his chair, a whiteness creeping into his face.