y, except to naturally increase the worth of my
services. I'm not squeamish about stiffs, but I like to know what I am
doing. What are you holding on to this other fellow for?"

Enright walked nervously across the room, chewing at his cigar, only to
come back and face his questioner.

"Well, I suppose I might as well tell you," he said almost savagely.
"You know so damn much now, you better know it all. You're in too deep
already to wiggle out. We made rather a mess of it in New York, and
only a bit of luck helped us through. We had the plans ready for three
months, but nothing occurred to give us a chance. Then all at once
Cavendish got his first telegram from Westcott, and decided to pull
out, not telling any one where he was going. That would have been all
right, for we had a man shadowing him, but at the last moment he
quarrelled with the boy we had the woman slated up with."

"Hold on; what boy? Let me get this straight."

"His nephew, and only relative--John Cavendish."

"Oh, I see; he was his heir; and you had him fixed?"

"We had him where he couldn't squeal, and have yet. That was Miss La
Rue's part of the game. But, as I was saying, there was a quarrel and
the uncle suddenly decided to draw up a will, practically cutting John
out entirely."

"Hell! Some joke that!"

"There was where luck came to our help. He employed me to draw the
will, and told me he planned to leave the city for some time. As soon
as I could I told the others over the phone, and we got busy."

Lacy struck his knee with his hand, and burst into a laugh.

"So, he simply disappeared! Your idea was that an accident might
happen, and our friend Beaton here took the same train to render any
necessary assistance."

"No," said Enright frankly, "murder wasn't part of our plan; it's too
risky. We had other means for getting this money--legally."

Lacy stared incredulous.

"And there hasn't been no killin'?"

Enright shook his head.

"Not by any of us."

"Then how about that dead man in New York--the one that was buried for
Cavendish? Oh, I read about that. Beaton showed it to me in the
paper."

"That's the whole trouble," Enright answered gravely. "I do not know
who he was, or how he came there. All I know is, he was not Frederick
Cavendish. But his being found there dead in Cavendish's apartments,
and identified, puts us in an awful hole, if the rest of this affair
should ever become known. Do you see? The