out. Half an hour later he strolled in again and returned part of the sheaf to Thaler, saying casually:
"We wait in the kitchen until we get the office."
We went down to the kitchen. It was dark there. More men joined us.
Presently something hit the door.
Jerry opened it and we went down three steps into the back yard. It was almost full daylight. There were ten of us in the party.
"This all?" I asked Thaler.
He nodded.
"Nick said there were fifty of you."
"Fifty to stand off that crummy force?" he asked scornfully.
A copper in uniform held the back gate open for us, muttering nervously:
"Hurry it up a little, boys, please!"
I was willing to oblige him, but everybody else ignored the request. We crossed the alley, were beckoned through another gate by a beefy man in brown, passed through a house, out into the next street, and climbed into a touring car that stood at the curb.
One of the blond boys drove. He knew what speed was.
"I want to be dropped off near the Great Western," I said.
The blond driver looked at Whisper, who nodded. We turned the next corner, and five minutes later I got out in front of my hotel.
"See you later," Thaler said, and the car slid away. The last I saw of it was its police department license plate vanishing around a corner.
XIII
It was half-past five. I wet up Broadway to where an unlighted electric sign said Hotel Windom, mounted a flight of steps to the second floor office, left a call for ten o'clock, was shown into a shabby room, moved some of the Scotch from my flask to my stomach, and took Elihu Willsson's ten-thousand dollar check and my gun to bed with me.
When my call roused me I dressed, went up to the First National Bank, found young Albury, and asked him to certify the old man's check for me. He kept me waiting a while, so I supposed he phoned Willsson's residence to find out of the check was on the up-and-up. Finally he brought it back to me, properly scribbled on.
I sponged an envelope, put Willsson's letter and check in it, addressed it to the Agency in San Francisco, stuck a stamp on it and went out to drop it in the mail-box on the corner.
Then I returned to the bank and said to the boy:
"Now, sonny, tell me why you killed him."
"Cock Robin or President Lincoln?" he asked, smiling.
"You're not going to admit off-hand that you killed Willsson?"
"I don't want to be disagreeable," he laughed, "but I'd rather not."
"That makes it bad," I complained. "We can't stand here and talk very long without being interrupted. Who's the stout party with the cheaters coming this way?"
The boy's face pinkened, and he said: "Mr. Dutton, the cashier."
"Introduce me."
The boy looked uncomfortable, but he called the cashier's name. Dutton—a large man with a smooth pink face, a fringe of white hair around an almost totally bald pink head, and rimless nose-glasses came over to us. The assistant cashier mumbled the introduction. I shook Dutton's hand without losing sight of the boy.
"I was just saying," I addressed Dutton, "that we ought to have a more private place for our talk. He probably won't confess till I've worked on him a while, and I don't want everybody in the bank to hear me yelling at him."
"Confess?" The cashier's tongue showed between his lips.
"Sure." I kept my voice and manner bland, mimicking Noonan. "Didn't
