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