I stole the money myself from the bank to-night.
I guess it's all up.
"THOMAS H.CARLING." From the paper, Jimmie Dale's eyes shifted to the figure by the couch--and the paper fluttered suddenly from his fingers to the desk.
Carling was reeling, clutching at his throat--a small glass vial rolled upon the carpet.

And then, even as Jimmie Dale sprang forward, the other pitched head long over the couch--and in a moment it was over.
Presently Jimmie Dale picked up the vial--and dropped it back on the floor again.

There was no label on it, but it needed none--the strong, penetrating odor of bitter almonds was telltale evidence enough.

It was prussic, or hydrocyanic acid, probably the most deadly poison and the swiftest in its action that was known to science--Carling had provided against that "some day" in his confession! For a little space, motionless, Jimmie Dale stood looking down at the silent, outstretched form--then he walked slowly back to the desk, and slowly, deliberately picked up the signed confession and the steamship ticket.

He held them an instant, staring at them, then methodically began to tear them into little pieces, a strange, tired smile hovering on his lips.