Dopey Jack shook his head dubiously.  “It ain’t no use trying to kid you, Mr. Carton.  If I told you a fake you’d find it out.  I’d tell you what he did, if I knew, but I don’t—­on the level.  He just took it.  Maybe he burnt it—­I don’t know.  I did my work.”

Unprincipled as the young man was, I could not help the feeling that in this case he was telling only the truth as he knew it.

We looked at each other aghast.  What if Murtha had got it and had destroyed it before his death?  That was an end of the dreams we had built on its capture.  On the other hand, if he had hidden it there was small likelihood now of finding it.  The only chance, as far as I could see, was that he had passed it along to someone else.  And of that Dopey Jack obviously knew nothing.

Still, his information was quite valuable enough.  He had given us the first definite information we had received of it.

Carton, his assistants, and Kennedy now vigorously proceeded in a sort of kid glove third degree, without getting any further than convincing themselves that Rubano genuinely did not know.

“But the stenographer,” reiterated Carton, returning to the line of attack which he had temporarily abandoned.  “Something became of her.  She disappeared and even her family haven’t a trace of her, nor any other institutions in the city.  We’ve got something on you, there, Rubano.”

Jack laughed.  “Mr. Carton,” he answered easily, “the police put me through the mill on that without finding anything, and I don’t believe you have anything.  But just to show you that I’m on the square with you, I don’t mind telling you that I got her away.”

It was dramatic, the off-hand way in which the gangster told of this mystery that had perplexed us.

“Got her away—­how—­where?” demanded Carton fiercely.

“Mr Murtha gave me some money—­a wad.  I don’t know who gave it to him, but it wasn’t his money.  It was to pay her to stay away till this all blew over.  Oh, they made it worth her while.  So I dolled up and saw her—­and she fell for it—­a pretty good sized wad,” he repeated, as though he wished some of it had stuck to his own hands.

We fairly gasped at the ease and simplicity with which the fellow bandied facts that had been beyond our discovery for days.  Here was another link in our chain.  We could not prove it, but in all probability it was Dorgan who furnished the money.  Even if the Black Book were lost, it was possible that in the retentive memory of this girl there might be much that would take its place.  She had seen a chance for providing for the future of herself and her family.  All she had to do was to take it and keep quiet.

“You know where she is, then?” shot out Kennedy suddenly.

“No—­not now,” returned Dopey.  “She was told to meet me at the Little Montmartre.  She did.  I don’t think she knew what kind of place it was, or she wouldn’t have come.”