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 came save an incoherent jibbering of mingled fright and rage. “…Lie…. Jailbird!… Filthy swine!…”

“I know,” Angus said, in the same dead level voice he had employed from the beginning. “I know you have embezzled and hypothecated securities deposited with you in trust. I do not know how many or to what amount. It is that you must tell me.”

“Tell you—tell you—you—you murderer! You jailbird! You—you scum!…”

Angus passed the words, though he flinched and paled. “I am bound,” he said, “for Mr. Woodhouse’s sake to do what I can—” But he never finished, for Crane turned suddenly, with an imprecation, and strode toward the door. He flung it open, stood an instant glaring, white-faced, terrible of eye, at Angus. Then he slammed the door and disappeared…. Angus sighed, leaned his head upon his arms, and the knuckles of his clenched fists showed white. The ordeal had been more terrible than he had anticipated.

Fifteen minutes later Gene rapped on the door and Angus summoned him to enter.

“Well,” said Gene, “we finished it up. Took a doggone long time to count, though—and what with him pesterin’ me to hurry, I thought I’d never git done.”