“So!” ejaculated old Isaac, rubbing his hands together.  “So!  That is good!  That is what I want.  Listen, we will make a bargain.  We are birds of a feather, eh?  All thieves, eh?  You’ve got the drop on us who did all the work, but you’ll give us our share—­eh?  Listen!  You couldn’t get rid of those stones alone.  You know that; you’re not so green at the game, eh?  You’d have to go to some one.  You know me; you know old Isaac, you say.  Well, then, you know there isn’t another man in New York could dispose of those rubies and play safe doing it except me.  I’ll make a good bargain with you.”

“Isaac,” said Jimmie Dale pensively, “you’ve made a good many ‘good’ bargains.  I wonder when you’ll make your last!  There’s more than one looking for ‘interest’ on those bargains in a pretty grim sort of way.”

“Bah!” ejaculated old Isaac.  “It is an old story.  They are all alike.  I am afraid of none of them.  I hold them all like—­that!” His hand opened and closed like a taloned claw.

“And you’d add me to the lot, eh?” said Jimmie Dale.  He lifted the revolver, its muzzle on old Isaac, examined the mechanism thoughtfully, and lowered it again.  “Very well, I’ll make a bargain with you—­providing it is agreeable to your young friend here.”

“Ah!” exclaimed old Isaac shrilly.  “So!  That is good!  It is done then.”  He chuckled hoarsely.  “Any bargain I make he will agree to.  Is it not so?” He fixed his eyes on Burton.  “Well, is it not so?  Speak up!  Say—­”

He stopped—­the words cut short off on his lips.  It came without warning—­a crash, a pound on the door below—­another.

Burton shrank back against the wall.

“My God!  The police!” he gasped.  “Maddon’s found out!  We’re—­we’re caught!”

Jimmie Dale’s eyes, on old Isaac, narrowed.  The pounding in the alleyway grew louder, more insistent.  And then his first suspicion passed—­it was no “game” of Isaac’s.  Crafty though the old fox was, the other’s surprise and agitation was too genuine to be questioned.

Still the pounding continued—­some one was kicking viciously at the door, and banging a tattoo on the panels with his fists.

Old Isaac’s clawlike hands doubled suddenly.

“It is some drunken sot,” he snarled out, “that knows no better than to come here and rouse the whole neighbourhood!  It is true, in a moment we will have the police running in from the street.  But wait—­wait—­I’ll teach the fool a lesson!” He dashed around the table, ran for the window, wrenched the catch up, flung the window open, and, snarling again, leaned out—­and instantly the knocking ceased.

And instantly then, with a sharp cry, as the whole ghastly meaning of it swept upon him, Jimmie sprang after the other—­too late!  Came the roar of a revolver shot, a stream of flame cutting the darkness of the alleyway from the window in the house opposite—­and, without a sound, old Isaac crumpled up, hung limply for a moment over the sill, and slid in a heap to the floor.