with safe cracking as one of his favourite pursuits, a man most earnestly desired by the police, provided the latter could catch him “with the goods.”  As for Hamvert, he did not know Hamvert, who was a stranger in New York, except that Hamvert had fleeced a man named Michael Breen out of his share in a claim they had had together when Breen had first gone to Alaska to try his luck, and now, having discovered that Breen, when prospecting alone somewhere in the interior a month or so ago, had found a rich vein and had made a map or diagram of its location, he, Hamvert, had followed the other to New York for the purpose of getting it by hook or crook.  Breen’s “find” had been too late; taken sick, he had never worked his claim, had barely got back home before he died, and only in time to hand his wife the strange legacy of a roughly scrawled little piece of paper, and—­Jimmie Dale straightened up alertly once more.  Steps again—­and this time coming from the direction of the elevator; then voices; then the opening of the door of the next room; then a voice, distinctly audible: 

“Pull up a chair, and we’ll get down to business.  You’re late, as it is.  We haven’t any time to waste, if we’re going to wash pay-dirt to-night.”

“Aw, dat’s all right!” responded another voice—­quite evidently the Weasel’s.  “Don’t youse worry—­de game’s cinched to a fadeaway.”

There was the sound of chairs being moved across the floor.  Jimmie Dale slipped the black silk mask over his face, opened the door on his side of the bathroom cautiously, and, without a sound, stepped into the bathroom that was lighted now, of course, by the light streaming in through the partially opened door of Hamvert’s room.  The two were talking earnestly now in lower tones.  Jimmie Dale only caught a word here and there—­his faculties for the moment were concentrated on traversing the bathroom silently.  He reached the farther door, crouched there, peered through the crack—­and the old whimsical smile flickered across his lips again.

The Palais-Metropole was high class and exclusive, and the Weasel for once looked quite the gentleman, and, for all his sharp, ferret face, not entirely out of keeping with his surroundings—­else he would never have got farther than the lobby.  The other was a short, thickset, heavy-jowled man, with a great shock of sandy hair, and small black eyes that looked furtively out from overhanging, bushy eyebrows.

“Well,” Hamvert was saying, “the details are your concern.  What I want is results.  We won’t waste time.  You’re to be back here by daylight—­only see that there’s no come-back.”

“Leave it to me!” returned the Weasel, with assurance.  “How’s dere goin’ ter be any come-back?  Mittel keeps it in his safe, don’t he?  Well, gentlemen’s houses has been robbed before—­an’ dis job’ll be a good one.  De geographfy stunt youse wants gets pinched wid de rest, dat’s all.  It disappears—­see?  Who’s ter know youse gets yer claws on it?  It’s just lost in de shuffle.”