Henry Lasalle!  Under the table, Jimmie Dale’s hand clenched suddenly; but not a muscle of his face moved, save, as with the tip of his tongue, he shifted the butt of the cigarette that was hanging royally from his lower lip to the other corner of his mouth.

“Sure!  She’s ‘got’ youse, Slimmy!” he flung out, with a grin, as the Tocsin wrinkled up her face menacingly and began to mumble to herself.  “He’s de guy dat handed her one when she was young, an’ she’s been layin’ fer him ever since!  Sure!  I know!  Ain’t I worked him fer her till I wears me shoes out tryin’ to get somet’ing on him!  Sure, she’s in on it!  Go on, Slimmy, wot’s de lay?  Wot do I do fer dat century?”

The Magpie hitched his chair closer to the table and, as his sharp, little, ferret eyes glanced around the room, motioned the two to brings their heads nearer.

“One of me influential broker friends down on Wall Street put me wise,” he said, with a wink.  “Dat’s good enough fer youse two, as far as dat goes.  But take it from me, I got it dead straight.”  He lowered his voice “Say, he’s one of de richest mugs in New York, ain’t he?  Well, he’s been sellin’ stocks an’ bonds all day, t’ousands an’ t’ousands of dollars’ worth—­fer cash.”

“All dem t’ings is always sold fer cash,” remarked Larry the Bat fatuously.

“Aw, ferget it!” said the Magpie earnestly.  “Fer cash, I said—­de coin, de long green—­understand?  He wasn’t shovin’ no checks fer what he sold into de bank except to get dem cashed.  Dat’s wot he’s been doin’ all day—­gettin’ de checks cashed, an’ gettin’ de money in big bills—­see!  I know of one bunch of eighty t’ousand—­an’ dat’s only one!”

“Wot fer?” inquired Larry the Bat.  It was the question that was pounding at his brain, as he stared innocently at the Magpie.  What did it mean?  Why was Henry LaSalle turning, and, if the Magpie was right, feverishly turning every security he could lay his hands on into cash?  And then, in a flash, the answer came.  They had not found the package!  Equally to them, as to the Tocsin, sitting there before him, it meant life and death.  If the package were found by the Tocsin instead of themselves, the game was up!  They were preparing for eventualities.  If they were forced to run at a moment’s notice, they at least were not going to run empty-handed!  Far from empty-handed, it seemed!  It would not be difficult for the estate’s executor to realise a vast sum in short order on instantly marketable, gilt-edged securities—­say, half a million dollars.  Not very bulky, either—­in large bills!  Five thousand hundred-dollar bills would make half a million.  It was astonishing how small a hand bag, say, might hold a fortune!  “Wot fer, Slimmy?” he inquired again, wiggling his cigarette butt on his tongue tip.  “Wot’d he do dat fer?”

“How de hell do youse suppose I knows!” demanded the Magpie, politely scornful.  “Dat’s his business—­dat ain’t wot’s worryin’ me!”