tell the boys," said Stangeist abruptly, "to fade away after this for a while. Things are getting too hot. And you tell The Mope I dock him five hundred for that extra crunch on Roessle's skull. That sort of thing isn't necessary. That's the kind of stunt that gets the public sore—the man was dead enough as it was. See?"
"Sure!" Clarie Deane's ejaculation was a grunt.
Stangeist opened the bag, and dumped the contents on the desk—pile after pile of banknotes, the pay roll of the Martindale-Kensington Mills.
"Some haul!" observed Clarie Deane, with a hoarse chuckle. "The papers said over twenty thousand."
"You can't always believe what the papers say," returned Stangeist curtly; and, taking a scribbling pad from the desk, began to check up the packages.
Clarie Deane's cigar had gone out. He rolled the short stub in his mouth, and leaned forward.
The bills were evidently just as they had been delivered to the murdered paymaster at the bank, done up with little narrow paper bands in packages of one hundred notes each, save for a small bundle of loose bills which latter, with the rolls of silver, Stangeist swept to one side of the desk.
Package by package, Stangeist went on jotting the amounts down on the pad.
"Nix!" growled Clarie Deane suddenly. "Cut that out! Them's fivers in that wad. Make that five hundred instead of one—I'm onter yer!"
"Mistake," said Stangeist suavely, changing the figures with his pencil. "You're pretty wide awake for this time of night, aren't you, Clarie?"
"Oh, I dunno!" responded Clarie Deane gruffly. "Not so very!"
Stangeist, finished with the packages, picked up the loose bills, and, with a short laugh, tossed them into the bag and followed them with the rolls of silver. He pushed the bag toward Clarie Deane.
"That's a little extra for you," he said. "The trouble with you fellows is that you don't know when you're well off—but the sooner you find it out the better, unless you want another lesson like yesterday." He made the addition on the pad. "Fifteen thousand, eight hundred dollars," he announced softly. "That's seven thousand, nine hundred for the three of you to divide, less five hundred from The Mope."
Clarie Deane's eyes narrowed. His hands were on his knees, hidden by the desk.
"There's more'n twenty there," he said sullenly—and drew a match across the under edge of the desk with a long, crackling noise.
Stangeist's face lost its suavity, a snarl curled his lips; but, about to reply, he sprang suddenly to his feet instead, his head turned sharply toward the door.
"What's that!" he said hoarsely. "It's not the servants, they wouldn't dare to—"
Stangeist's words ended in a gulp. He was staring into the muzzle of a heavy-calibered revolver that Clarie Deane had jerked up from under the desk.
"You sit down, or I'll blow your block off!" said Clarie Deane, with a sudden leer.
It happened then almost before Jimmie Dale could grasp the details; before even Clarie Deane himself could interfere. The door burst open, two men rushed in—and one, with a bound, flung himself at Stangeist. The man's hand, grasping a clubbed revolver, rose in the air, descended on Stangeist's head—and Stangeist went down in a limp heap, crashed into the chair, and slid from the chair with a thud to the floor.
There was an oath from Clarie Deane. He jumped from his seat, and with a violent shove sent the man reeling half across the room.
"Blast you, Mope!" he snarled. "You're too blamed fly! D'ye wanter queer the whole biz?"
"Aw, wot's the matter wid youse!" The Mope, purple-faced with rage, little black eyes glittering, mouth working under a flattened nose that some previous encounter had broken and bent over the side of his face, advanced belligerently.
Australian Ike, who had entered the room with him, pulled him back.
"Ferget it!" he flung out. "Clarie's dealin' the deck. Ferget it!"
The Mope glared from one to the other; then shook his fist at Stangeist on the floor.
"Youse two make me sick!" he sneered. "Wot's the use of waitin' all night? We was to bump him off, anyway, wasn't we? Dat's wot youse said yerselves, 'cause wot was ter stop him writin' out another paper if we didn't fix him fer keeps?"
"That's all right," rejoined Clarie Deane; "but that's the second act, you bonehead, see! We ain't got the paper yet, have we? Say, take a look at that safe! It's easier ter scare him inter openin' it than ter crack it, ain't it?"
Jimmie Dale, from his crouched position, began to rise to his feet slowly, making but the slightest movement at a time, cautious of the least sound. His lips were like a thin line, his fingers tightly pressed over the automatic in his hand. There was not room for him between the portieres and the window; and, do what he could, the hangings bulged a little. Let one of the three notice that, or inadvertently brush against the portieres, and his life would not be worth an instant's purchase.
They were lifting Stangeist up now, propping him up in the chair. Stangeist moaned, opened his eyes, stared in a dazed way at the three faces that leered into his, then dawning intelligence came, and his face, that had been white before, took on a pasty, grayish pallor.
"You—the three of you!" he mumbled. "What's this mean?"
And then Clarie Deane laughed in a low, brutal way.
"Wot d'ye think it means? We want that paper, an' we want it damn quick—see! D'ye think we was goin' ter stand fer havin' a trip ter Sing Sing an' the wire chair danglin' over our heads!"
Stangeist closed his eyes. When he opened them again, something of the old-time craftiness was in his face.
"Well, what are you going to do about it?" he inquired, almost sharply. "You know what will happen to you, if anything happens to me."
"Don't youse kid yerself!" retorted Clarie Deane. "D'ye think we're fools? This ain't like it was yesterday—see! We GETS the paper this time—so there won't nothin' happen to us. You come across with it blasted quick now, or The Mope'll give you another on the bean that'll put you to sleep fer keeps!"
The blood was running down Stangeist's face. He wiped it away from his eyes.
"It's not here," he said innocently. "It's in my box in the safety-deposit vaults."
"Aw," blurted out Australian Ike, pushing suddenly forward, "youse can't work dat crawl on—"
"Cut it out, Ike!" snapped Clarie Dane. "I'm runnin' this! So it's in the vaults, eh?" He shoved his face toward Stangeist's.
"Yes," said Stangeist easily. "You see—I was looking for something like this."
Clarie Deane's fist clenched.
"You lie!" he choked. "The Mope, here, was the last of us you showed the paper to yesterday afternoon, an' the vaults was closed then—an' you ain't been there to-day, 'cause you've been watched. That's why we fixed it fer to-night after the divvy that you've just tried ter do us on again, 'cause we knew you had it here."
"I
