"That's just what happened, though," Grost told Urleigh. "They pulled a double play that time, and look what they got! Two hundred thousand—and they've made a clean getaway with it! Poor Goles—he's a deader now. Yet there's just one chance about him: If he survived the rap they gave him on the head, he may be somewhere around, though he's not in any hospital here or down in Warsaw. I believe he's in the Ohio, but if he is, I've an uncommonly strong hankering to see the corpse."
"That's a real story!" Urleigh smiled. "It's all mine?
"Yes, sir. Don't spring it here, though. Make the headline Warsaw, or Louisville, or Columbus, so that you don't mix us up in it. The police are working, you know; it'll be plumb amusing to me to hear their voices over the telephone asking me how long they've been working, when our local reporters have brought them the news from Chicago and Pittsburgh that Obert Goles disappeared between Cincinnati and Warsaw with a hundred thousand in diamonds, and that Warsaw's mysterious Mr. Wrest was held up and tortured and forced to give over another hundred thousand. Oh, I'm waiting for that!"
The two laughed. Sheriffs, chiefs of police, and U. S. Secret Service workers often read the newspapers to find out what they were doing, now that Urleigh
