d by the
Sparrow's movements. "I wouldn't care to have anything happen to Mr.
Danglar--yet. He has been invaluable to me, and I am sure he will be
again."

The Sparrow brushed his hands across his eyes, and stared at her. He
licked his lips again. He appeared to be obsessed with the knife-blade
in his hand--dazed in a strange way to all else.

"There's enough cord there for both of them," said Rhoda Gray crisply.
"Tie them in their chairs, Marty."

For a moment the Sparrow hesitated; and then, with a sort of queer
reluctancy, he dropped the knife on the table, and went and picked up
the strands of cord from the floor.

No one spoke. The Sparrow, with twitching lips as he worked, and worked
not gently, bound first Danglar and then Skeeny to their respective
chairs. Skeeny for the most part kept his eyes on the floor, casting
only furtive glances at Rhoda Gray's revolver muzzle. But Danglar was
smiling now. He had very white teeth. There was something of primal,
insensate fury in the hard-drawn, parted lips. Somehow he seemed to
remind Rhoda Gray of a beast, stung to madness, but impotent behind the
bars of its cage, as it showed its fangs.

"We'll go now, Marty," she said softly, as the Sparrow finished.

She motioned the Sparrow with an imperious little nod of her head to the
door. And then, following the other, she backed to the door herself, and
halted an instant on the threshold.

"It has been a very profitable evening, Mr. Danglar," she said coolly.
"I have you to thank for it. When your friends come, which I think I
heard you say would be in another hour or so, I hope you will not fail
to convey to them my--"

"You she-fiend!" Danglar had found his voice again. "You'll crawl for
this! Do you understand? and I'll show you inside of twenty-four hours
what you're up against, you--you--" His voice broke in its fury. The
veins were standing out on the side of his neck like whipcords. He could
just move his forearms a little, and his hands reached out toward her,
curved like claws. "I'll--"

But Rhoda Gray had closed the door behind her, and, with the Sparrow,
was retreating down the stairs.

VII. FELLOW THIEVES

Reaching the courtyard, Rhoda Gray led the way without a word through
the driveway, and finding the street clear, hurried on rapidly. Her
mind, strangely stimulated, was working in quick, incisive flashes.
Her work was not yet done. The Sparrow was safe, as far as his life was
concerned; but