“We’ve got to be careful,” one of them remarked in a scarcely audible undertone.  “Carton has detectives mingling with the talesmen in every court of importance in the city.”

The reply of the other was not audible, but Carton leaned over to us and whispered, “One of Kahn’s runners, I think.”

Apparently Kahn was taking extreme precautions and wanted everything in readiness so that whatever was to be done would go off smoothly.  Kennedy glanced up at the little black leather box perched high above on the sill of the partition.

“The chief says that a thousand dollars is the highest price that he can afford for ‘hanging’ this jury—­providing you get on it, or any of your friends.”

The other man, whose voice was not of the vibrating, penetrating quality of the runner, seemed to hesitate and be inclined to argue.

“We’ve had ’em as low as five dollars,” went on the runner, at which Carton exchanged a knowing glance with us.  “But in a special case, like this, we realize that they come high.”

The other man grumbled a bit and we could catch the word, “risky.”

Back and forth the argument went.  The runner, however, was a worthy representative of his chief, for at last he succeeded in carrying both his point and his price.

“All right,” we heard him say at last, “the chief is in the back room.  Wait until I see whether he is alone.”

The runner rose and went around to the swinging door.  From the other side of the transom we could, as we had expected, hear nothing.  A moment later the runner returned.

“Go in and see him,” he whispered.

The man rose and made his way through the swinging door into the back room.

None of us said a word, but Kennedy was literally on his toes with excitement.  He was holding the little battery in his hand and after waiting a few moments pressed what looked like a push button.

He could not restrain his impatience longer, but had jumped up on the leather seat and for a moment looked at the black leather box, then through the half open transom, as best he could.

“Press it—­press it!” he whispered to Carton, pointing at the push button, as he turned a little handle on the box, then quickly dropped down and resumed his seat.

“Craig—­one of the waiters,” I cried hurriedly.

The outside bar had been filling up as the evening advanced and the sight of a man standing on one of the seats had attracted the attention of a patron.  A waiter had followed his curious gaze and saw Kennedy.

With a quick pull on the wire, Kennedy jerked the black leather box from its high perch and deftly caught it as it fell.

“Say—­what are youse guys doin’, huh?” demanded the waiter pugnaciously.

Carton and I had risen and stood between the man and Craig.

The sound of voices in high pitch was enough to attract a crowd ever ready to watch a scrap.  Mindful of the famous “flying wedge” of waiters at Farrell’s for the purpose of hustling objectionable and obstreperous customers with despatch to the sidewalk, I was prepared for anything.