it, Doc. Says Quint to us: 'Trim a few
guys for me and get their letters,' says Quint; 'and there's somethin'
in it for me and you!' And _that's_ the new stuff, Doc."

"You mean we're spies?"

"Spies? I don't know. We're on a salary. We get a big bonus for every
letter we find on the carpet----" He winked at Curfoot and relighted
his cigar.

"Say," said the latter, "it's like a creeping joint. It's a panel
game, Ben----"

"It's politics like they play 'em in Albany, only it's ambassadors and
kinks we trim, not corporations."

"_We_ can't do it! What the hell do we know about kinks and
attaches?"

"No; Weishelm, Breslau and Kestner do that. We lay for the attaches or
spin or deal or act handy at the bar and buffet with homesick
Americans. No; the fine work--the high-up stuff, is done by Breslau
and Weishelm. And I guess there's some fancy skirts somewhere in the
game. But they're silent partners; and anyway Weishelm manages that
part."

Curfoot, one lank knee over the other, swung his foot thoughtfully to
and fro, his ratty eyes lost in dreamy revery. Brandes tossed his
half-consumed cigar out of the open window and set fire to another.
Stull waited for Curfoot to make up his mind. After several minutes
the latter looked up from his cunning abstraction:

"Well, Ben, put it any way you like, but we're just plain political
spies. And what the hell do they hand us over here if we're pinched?"

"I don't know. What of it?"

"Nothing. If there's good money in it, I'll take a chance."

"There is. Quint backs us. When we get 'em coming----"

"Ah," said Doc with a wry face, "that's all right for the cards or the
wheel. But this pocket picking----"

"Say; that ain't what I mean. It's like this: Young Fitznoodle of the
Embassy staff gets soused and starts out lookin' for a quiet game. We
furnish the game. We don't go through his pockets; we just pick up
whatever falls out and take shorthand copies. Then back go the letters
into Fitznoodle's pocket----"

"Yes. Who reads 'em first?"

"Breslau. Or some skirt, maybe."

"What's Breslau?"

"Search _me_. He's a Dutchman or a Rooshian or some sort of Dodo. What
do you care?"

"I don't. All right, Ben. You've got to show me; that's all."

"Show you what?"

"Spot cash!"

"You're in when you handle it?"

"If you show me real money--yes."

"You're on. I'll cash a cheque of Quint's for you at Monroe's soon as
we hit the asphalt! And when you finish counting out