“What difference does that make?”

“None, particularly, except to naturally increase the worth of my services.  I’m not squeamish about stiffs, but I like to know what I am doing.  What are you holding on to this other fellow for?”

Enright walked nervously across the room, chewing at his cigar, only to come back and face his questioner.

“Well, I suppose I might as well tell you,” he said almost savagely.  “You know so damn much now, you better know it all.  You’re in too deep already to wiggle out.  We made rather a mess of it in New York, and only a bit of luck helped us through.  We had the plans ready for three months, but nothing occurred to give us a chance.  Then all at once Cavendish got his first telegram from Westcott, and decided to pull out, not telling any one where he was going.  That would have been all right, for we had a man shadowing him, but at the last moment he quarrelled with the boy we had the woman slated up with.”

“Hold on; what boy?  Let me get this straight.”

“His nephew, and only relative—­John Cavendish.”

“Oh, I see; he was his heir; and you had him fixed?”

“We had him where he couldn’t squeal, and have yet.  That was Miss La Rue’s part of the game.  But, as I was saying, there was a quarrel and the uncle suddenly decided to draw up a will, practically cutting John out entirely.”

“Hell!  Some joke that!”

“There was where luck came to our help.  He employed me to draw the will, and told me he planned to leave the city for some time.  As soon as I could I told the others over the phone, and we got busy.”

Lacy struck his knee with his hand, and burst into a laugh.

“So, he simply disappeared!  Your idea was that an accident might happen, and our friend Beaton here took the same train to render any necessary assistance.”

“No,” said Enright frankly, “murder wasn’t part of our plan; it’s too risky.  We had other means for getting this money—­legally.”

Lacy stared incredulous.

“And there hasn’t been no killin’?”

Enright shook his head.

“Not by any of us.”

“Then how about that dead man in New York—­the one that was buried for Cavendish?  Oh, I read about that.  Beaton showed it to me in the paper.”

“That’s the whole trouble,” Enright answered gravely.  “I do not know who he was, or how he came there.  All I know is, he was not Frederick Cavendish.  But his being found there dead in Cavendish’s apartments, and identified, puts us in an awful hole, if the rest of this affair should ever become known.  Do you see?  The charge would be murder, and how are we going to hold the real Cavendish alive, and not have it come out?”

“The other one—­the stiff—­wasn’t Cavendish?”

“Certainly not; you know where Cavendish is.”

“I never saw Fred Cavendish; I wouldn’t know him from Adam’s off-ox.  I’ve got the fellow Beaton turned over to me.”