“Right!” agreed Hamvert briskly—­and from his inside pocket produced a package of crisp new bills, yellow-backs, and evidently of large denominations.  “Half down and half on delivery—­that’s our deal.”

“Dat’s wot!” assented the Weasel curtly.

Hamvert began to count the bills.

Jimmie Dale’s hand stole into his pocket, and came out with his handkerchief and the thin metal insignia case.  From the latter, with its little pair of tweezers, he took out one of the adhesive gray seals.  His eyes warily on the two men, he dropped the seal on his handkerchief, restored the thin metal case to his pocket—­and in its stead the blue-black ugly muzzle of his automatic peeped from between his fingers.

“Five thousand down,” said Hamvert, pushing a pile of notes across the table, and tucking the remainder back into his pocket; “and the other five’s here for you when you get back with the map.  Ordinarily, I wouldn’t pay a penny in advance, but since you want it that way and the map’s no good to you while the rest of the long green is, I—­” He swallowed his words with a startled gulp, clutched hastily at the money on the table, and began to struggle up from his chair to his feet.

With a swift, noiseless side-step through the open door, Jimmie Dale was standing in the room.

Jimmie Dale’s tones were conversational.  “Don’t get up,” said Jimmie Dale coolly.  “And take your hand off that money!”

The Weasel, whose back had been to the door, squirmed around in his chair—­and in his turn stared into the muzzle of Jimmie Dale’s revolver, while his jaw dropped and sagged.

“Good-evening, Weasel,” observed Jimmie Dale casually.  “I seem to be in luck to-night.  I got into that room next door, but an empty room is slim picking.  And then it seemed to me I heard some one in here mention five thousand dollars twice, which makes ten thousand, and which happens to be just exactly the sum I need at the present moment—­if I can’t get any more!  I haven’t the honour of your wealthy friend’s acquaintance, but I am really charmed to meet him.  You—­er—­understand, both of you, that the slightest sound might prove extremely embarrassing.”

Hamvert’s face was white, and he stirred uneasily in his chair; but into the Weasel’s face, the first shock of surprised dismay past, came a dull, angry red, and into the eyes a vicious gleam—­and suddenly he laughed shortly.

“Why, youse damned fool,” jeered the Weasel, “d’youse t’ink youse can get away wid dat!  Say, take it from me, youse are a piker!  Say, youse make me tired.  Wot d’youse t’ink youse are?  D’youse t’ink dis is a tee-ayter, an’ dat youse are a cheap-skate actor strollin’ acrost de stage?  Aw, beat it, youse make me sick!  Why, say, youse pinch dat money, an’ youse have got de same chanst of gettin’ outer dis hotel as a guy has of breakin’ outer Sing Sing!  By de time youse gets five feet from de door of dis room we has de whole works on yer neck.”