"
Frank was confused and made no reply, until Whitley asked: "Where does
the fellow live now?"
"I don't know, but he's in old man Wicks' office every evening; has
a desk there, and works on some fool Association work."
Whitley nodded. "Then you will find the papers in Uncle Bobbie's safe."
"But how am I to get them?"
"I don't know; you can't buy them. You can't bluff him. And he won't
scare. There's only one other way I know."
"You mean that I must steal them?" gasped Frank.
Whitley looked at him with an evil smile. "That's rather a hard word
for a good Christian, isn't it? Let's say, obtain possession of the
documents without Mr. Falkner's knowledge. It sounds better."
"I'm no thief," snapped Frank.
Jim lifted his eyebrows as he skillfully flipped the ashes from his
cigar. "Oh, I see; you did not rob the old gentleman's safe that night.
I saved you from committing murder. You only negotiated a trifling
loan with your loving parent. You'll be telling me next that you didn't
gamble, but only whiled away a leisure hour or two in a social game
of cards. But, joking aside, I honestly believe, Frank Goodrich, that
you are more kinds of a fool than any man I have ever had the pleasure
to know. The case in a nutshell is this: I must have those papers. I
can't go after them myself. You've got to get them for me."
"I won't," said Frank, sullenly. "I can't."
"You can, and you will," retorted the other, firmly; "or I'll turn
those notes over to my lawyer for collection, inside of twenty-four
hours, and the little story of your life will be told to all the world.
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