The Tocsin cackled maliciously in assent; and then, while the Magpie got up from his chair and stood peering over her shoulder, she began to draw labouriously, her brows knitted, the pencil hooked awkwardly between cramped-up forefinger and thumb.

Larry the Bat, slouched forward over the table, his chin in his hands, appeared to watch the proceedings with mild interest—­but his eyes, like a hawk’s, were following every line on the paper, transferring them to his brain, photographing every detail of the plan in his mind.  And as he watched, there seemed something that was near to the acme of all that was ironical in the Magpie standing there, his sharp, little, black eyes drinking in greedily the Tocsin’s work, in the Tocsin herself aiding and abetting in the projected theft—­of her own money!  How far would he let the Magpie go?  He did not know.  Perhaps—­who could tell!—­all the way.  Between now and then there lay that package!  If it were at Makoff’s, at Spider Jack’s, if he could find it, get it—­the Magpie as a temporary custodian of the estate’s money would at least preclude its loss by flight if the Crime Club took alarm too quickly.  Larry the Bat’s eyes, under half-closed lids, rested musingly on the Magpie’s face.  The Magpie would not get very far away with it!  On the other hand, if he failed at Spider Jack’s, if, after all, he was wrong, and the package had never been there, or if they had forestalled him, turned the trick upon him, already secured it, then—­Larry the Bat’s lips, working on his cigarette, formed in a twisted smile—­then, well then, that was quite another matter!  Perhaps he and the Magpie might not agree so far!  A half million dollars was perhaps not much out of eleven millions, but it was a salvage not to be despised!  Why did he say half a million!  Well, why not?  If the Magpie knew of a single transaction of eighty thousand, and there had been many transactions during the day, a half million was little likely to prove an exaggeration—­and the less likely in view of the fact that, if those in the Crime Club were preparing for an emergency, they would not stint themselves in the disposal of securities.

The Magpie was keeping up a running fire of questions, as the Tocsin toiled on with her pencil.  Where did the hall lead to?  How many windows in the library?  Did she remember the kind of fastenings?  Did the servants sleep in the basement, or above?  And finally, twice over, as she finished the clumsy drawing and pushed it toward him, he demanded minute details of the position of the safe.

“Aw, dat’s all right, Slimmy!” Larry the Bat cut in airily.  “If youse ferget anyt’ing when youse get in dere, youse can ask me.  I got it cinched!”

The Magpie folded the paper and stowed it carefully away in his pocket.

“Ask youse, eh!” he grunted sarcastically.  “An’ where do youse t’ink youse’ll be about dat time?”

“In dere wid youse, of course,” replied Larry the Bat promptly.  “Dat’s wot youse said.”