o--bits merely of
the fraudulent drama now about to be played--but surely Gulwing was most
solid and dependable and plausible looking. His make-up was perfect. To
get here so soon after receiving the cue he must have been awaiting the
word just outside the entrance. Gulwing was smart but he was not so
smart as Marr--Marr exulted to himself. In high good humor, he dropped
a dollar bill at the girl's elbow.

"Pay for the call out of that, miss, and keep the change," he said
genially. "Sorry I was so boisterous just now."

Thirty minutes later, still radiating gratification, Marr stood at the
cigar stand making a discriminating choice of the best in the humidor of
imported goods. Gulwing and Hartridge were over there on the sofa, cheek
by jowl, and all was going well.

Half aloud, to himself, he said, smiling in prime content: "Well, I
guess I'm bad!"

"I guess you are!" said a voice right in his ear; "and you're due to be
worse, Chappy, old boy--much worse!"

The smile slipped. He turned his head and looked into the complacent,
chubby face and the pleased eyes of M. J. Brock, head of Brock's
Detective Agency--the man of all men in this world he wished least to
see. For once, anyhow, in his life Marr was shaken, and showed it.

"That's all right, Chappy," said Brock soothingly, rocking his short
plump figure on his heels; "there won't be any rough stuff. I've got a
cop off the corner who's waiting outside if I should need him--in case
of a jam--but I guess we won't need him, will we? You'll go along with
me nice and friendly in a taxicab, won't you?" He flirted his thumb over
his shoulder. "And you needn't bother about Gulwing either. I've seen
him--saw him as soon as I came in. I guess he'll be seeing me in a
minute, too, and then he'll suddenly remember where it was he left his
umbrella and take it on the hop."

Marr said not a word. Brock rattled on in high spirits, still
maintaining that cat-with-a-mouse attitude which was characteristic of
him.

"Never mind worrying about old pal Gulwing--I don't want him now. You're
the one you'd better be worrying about; because that's going to be a
mighty long taxi ride that you're going to take with me, Chappy--fifteen
minutes to get there, say, and anywhere from five to ten years to get
back--or I miss my guess.... Yes, Chappy, you're nailed with the goods
this time. Propbridge is going through; his wife too. They'll go to
court; they'll shove the case. And Cheesy Zaugb