e reward
of heroism from a grateful nabob, and we didn't get any help that way.
All we knew was that Deemer came East with the jewels, presumably to
cash in on them, and it looked as though Deemer were pretty clever;
that he wore the money-belt for a stall, and that he had the sparklers
safe somewhere else all the time. And I guess we all got to figuring
it that way, because the fact that nothing was said about any theft was
strictly along the lines the police were working anyway, and a was a
toss-up that they hadn't found the stuff among his effects. Get me?"

Get him! This wasn't real, was it, this room here; those two figures
sitting there under that shaded lamp? Something cold, an icy grip,
seemed to seize at her heart, as in a surge there swept upon her the
full appreciation of her peril through these confidences to which she
was listening. A word, in act, some slightest thing, might so easily
betray her; and then--Her fingers under the shawl and inside the wide
pocket of her greasy skirt, clutched at her revolver. Thank God for
that! It would at least be merciful! She nodded her head mechanically.

"But the police didn't find the jewels--because they weren't there to be
found. Somebody got in ahead of us. Pinched 'em, understand, may be only
a few hours before you got in your last play, and, from the way you say
Deemer acted, before he was wise to the fact that he'd been robbed."

Rhoda Gray let her chair come sharply down to the floor. She must play
her role of "Bertha" now as she never had before. Here was a question
that she could not only ask with safety, but one that was obviously
expected.

"Who was it?" she demanded breathlessly.

"She's coming to life!" murmured Danglar, through a haze of cigarette
smoke. "I thought you'd wake up after a while, Bertha. This is the big
night, old girl, as you'll find out before we're through."

"Who was it?" she repeated with well-simulated impatience.

"I guess she'll listen to me now," said Danglar, with a little chuckle.
"Don't over-tax yourself any more, Matty. I'll tell you, Bertha; and it
will perhaps make you feel better to know it took the slickest dip New
York ever knew to beat you to the tape. It was Angel Jack, alias the
Gimp."

"How do you know?" Rhoda Gray demanded.

"Because," said Danglar, and lighted another cigarette, "he died
yesterday afternoon up in Sing Sing."

She could afford to show her frank bewilderment. Her brows knitted into
furrows,