There was silence for a moment in the room; then Burton again, hoarse-voiced: "Isaac, I'll make good to you some other way.

I swear I will--I swear it! If I'm caught at this I'll--I'll get fifteen years for it." "And which would you rather have ?" Jimmie Dale could picture the oily smirk, the shrug of his shoulders, the outthrust hands, palms upward, elbows in at the hips, the fingers curved and wide apart--"fifteen years, or what you get--for murder?
Eh, my friend, you have thought of that--eh?
It is a very little price I ask--yes ?" "Damn you!" Burton's voice was shrill, then dropped to a half sob.

"No, no, Isaac, I didn't mean that.

Only, for God's sake be merciful! It is not only the risk of the penitentiary; it's more than that.

I--I tried to play white all my life, and until that cursed night there's no man living could say I haven't.