“That’s a little extra for you,” he said.  “The trouble with you fellows is that you don’t know when you’re well off—­but the sooner you find it out the better, unless you want another lesson like yesterday.”  He made the addition on the pad.  “Fifteen thousand, eight hundred dollars,” he announced softly.  “That’s seven thousand, nine hundred for the three of you to divide, less five hundred from The Mope.”

Clarie Deane’s eyes narrowed.  His hands were on his knees, hidden by the desk.

“There’s more’n twenty there,” he said sullenly—­and drew a match across the under edge of the desk with a long, crackling noise.

Stangeist’s face lost its suavity, a snarl curled his lips; but, about to reply, he sprang suddenly to his feet instead, his head turned sharply toward the door.

“What’s that!” he said hoarsely.  “It’s not the servants, they wouldn’t dare to—­”

Stangeist’s words ended in a gulp.  He was staring into the muzzle of a heavy-calibered revolver that Clarie Deane had jerked up from under the desk.

“You sit down, or I’ll blow your block off!” said Clarie Deane, with a sudden leer.

It happened then almost before Jimmie Dale could grasp the details; before even Clarie Deane himself could interfere.  The door burst open, two men rushed in—­and one, with a bound, flung himself at Stangeist.  The man’s hand, grasping a clubbed revolver, rose in the air, descended on Stangeist’s head—­and Stangeist went down in a limp heap, crashed into the chair, and slid from the chair with a thud to the floor.

There was an oath from Clarie Deane.  He jumped from his seat, and with a violent shove sent the man reeling half across the room.

“Blast you, Mope!” he snarled.  “You’re too blamed fly!  D’ye wanter queer the whole biz?”

“Aw, wot’s the matter wid youse!” The Mope, purple-faced with rage, little black eyes glittering, mouth working under a flattened nose that some previous encounter had broken and bent over the side of his face, advanced belligerently.

Australian Ike, who had entered the room with him, pulled him back.

“Ferget it!” he flung out.  “Clarie’s dealin’ the deck.  Ferget it!”

The Mope glared from one to the other; then shook his fist at Stangeist on the floor.

“Youse two make me sick!” he sneered.  “Wot’s the use of waitin’ all night?  We was to bump him off, anyway, wasn’t we?  Dat’s wot youse said yerselves, ‘cause wot was ter stop him writin’ out another paper if we didn’t fix him fer keeps?”

“That’s all right,” rejoined Clarie Deane; “but that’s the second act, you bonehead, see!  We ain’t got the paper yet, have we?  Say, take a look at that safe!  It’s easier ter scare him inter openin’ it than ter crack it, ain’t it?”

Jimmie Dale, from his crouched position, began to rise to his feet slowly, making but the slightest movement at a time, cautious of the least sound.  His lips were like a thin line, his fingers tightly pressed over the automatic in his hand.  There was not room for him between the portieres and the window; and, do what he could, the hangings bulged a little.  Let one of the three notice that, or inadvertently brush against the portieres, and his life would not be worth an instant’s purchase.