His hands went out again--again his tongue moistened his dry lips.

He whispered: "Isn't--isn't there some--some way we can fix this ?" And then Jimmie Dale laughed--not pleasantly.
"Yes, there's a way, Carling," he said grimly.

"That's why I'm here." He picked up a sheet of writing paper and pushed it across the desk--then a pen, which he dipped into the inkstand, and extended to the other.

"The way you'll fix it will be to write out a confession exonerating Moyne." Carling shrank back into his chair, his head huddling into his shoulders.
"NO!" he cried.

"I won't--I can't--my God!--I--I--WON'T!" The automatic in Jimmie Dale's hand edged forward the fraction of an inch.
"I have not used this--yet.