ere'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. You understand now why--don't you?" he said
under his breath.

"No, no!" Carling pushed away the pen. "I'm ruined--ruined as it is. But
this would mean the penitentiary, too--"

"Where you tried to send an innocent man in your place, you hound; where
you--"

"Some other way--some other way!" Carling was babbling. "Let me out of
this--for God's sake, let me out of this!"

"Carling," said Jimmie Dale hoarsely, "I stood beside a little bed
to-night and looked at a baby girl--a little baby girl with golden hair,
who smiled as she slept."

Carling shivered, and passed a shaking hand across his face.

"Take this pen," said Jimmie Dale monotonously; "or--THIS!" The
automatic lifted until the muzzle was on a line with Carling's eyes.

Carling's hand reached out, still shaking, and took the pen; and his
body, dragged limply forward, hung over the desk. The pen spluttered on
the paper--a bead of sweat spurting from the man's forehead dropped to
the sheet.

There was silence in the room. A minute passed--another. Carling's pen
travelled haltingly across the paper then, with a queer, low cry as
he signed his name, he dropped the pen from his fingers, and, rising
unsteadily from his chair, stumbled away from the desk toward a couch
across the room.

An instant Jimmie Dale watched the other, then he picked up the sheet of
paper. It was a miserable document, miserably scrawled:

"I guess it's all up. I guess I knew it would be some day. Moyne hadn't
anything to do with it. 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.