," corrected
McCorquodale. "Nickleby aint no financier; he's a smooth pebble,
that's all. His standin's faked an' behind it he's layin' low or I
misses my best guess. If he aint a crook I never seen one."

Phil was silent for a moment. Apparently McCorquodale had not been
informed as to the real contents of that tan satchel he had been
assigned to guard. Wade and Cranston were following that line of
investigation under cover for the time being. But it was likely that
the bootlegging operations had no connection whatever with the missing
money and that the evidence Wade wanted was merely an additional net
with which to close in on this man who had usurped control of the
Interprovincial Loan & Savings Company--misuse of trust funds or
something like that.

"Listen to me, Cork. I've been thinking out a plan for getting to the
bottom of this law-breaking booze business that we've got a line on,
but I need another man to work it out right, and you're elected."

"Attaboy!" cried McCorquodale enthusiastically.

"We can't get busy on it till Mr. Wade gets back from Montreal in a few
days. I'm going to find out what lies back of the instructions you got
to come here and watch our cottage, then ask him to let you join me on
the investigation. I'm going back to town to-morrow, and if anything
happens here in the meantime you're to wire me at once. I can rely on
you?"

"Say, kid, y'lays a bet on a sure thing when y'lays it on y'r Uncle
Dudley. I aint no Little Fatima fer looks; but I knows it, see. Young
McKilligan bent me bugle in a ten-round go wunst; I gets this here
split whistler the time I licked Kay-O Bergey, an' I's born with this
here wheeze in me pipes, an' with that bum layout I aint buttin' into
no cynthia ortchesstra, believe me. But I knows it, see, an' I got a
kick in each mitt an' I aint never renigged on a pal, Mr. Kendrick, an'
I goes to church reg'lar every damn Sunday, see. Y'r auntie'll be
safer'n if she was at home; fer there aint no danger here o' gettin'
knocked down by street-cars 'n' autermobiles. Now, fer Gawd's sake,
c'm on an' eat."

"All right," laughed Phil. "Toast's just done. An' while we eat
perhaps you won't mind telling me why you think my uncle's a grafter."

"Aw, nix, nix! Don't go rubbin' it in, kid!" protested Mr.
McCorquodale hastily. "Y'r lamp's quit smokin', aint it? Ferget it.
Them two guys I was with that night was a couple o' bums as was workin'
fer Nickleby