At nine o'clock Moody rose from his doorstep and came inside, carefully locking and double-locking the door and putting its key in his pocket.

He did the same by the rear exit, and was preparing to retire to the privacy of his own small room when he was hailed a second time by his charge.

"Now, what?" Moody went to the barred door of the cell with more alacrity on this occasion, hopeful of further largesse. "Can't you let a man have a minute's peace?"

"Going to bed so soon?"

"Nothin' else to do."

"Remember two years ago how we used to play checkers at the Workmen's Club?"

"What of it?"

"You used to beat me then pretty regular, but I guess it'd be different now. I'd beat you four out of five."

"That's nonsense. What are you gettin' at anyway?"

"What's the matter with letting me out of here for a while? A few games of checkers wouldn't do any harm--help pa.s.s the time."

"Help pa.s.s--! Say, where do you think you are? Why don't you ask me to take you to the movies? Mebbe you'd like me to send for Drusilla so's we could have a dance? Want me to lose my job, huh?"

"Who's going to know anything about it except us? Slip out and get a board--and a couple of gla.s.ses!"

"_Gla.s.ses_? What kind of gla.s.ses?"

"Whisky gla.s.ses."

Moody started. He looked keenly at his prisoner. Slowly, a warm light stole into his eye, he moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue.

"Quit your kiddin'!"

"I'm not kidding--look here!"

Maxon knew his man. Satisfied that he had Moody quivering with antic.i.p.ation, he stepped to his cot, produced the flat bottle and shook it invitingly. The rich gurgle was music to the jailer's ear. A more hard-boiled, professional warder would have followed just one course with decision and dispatch, to Moody's credit be it said, it did not once occur to him that he might safely confiscate the treasure and dedicate it to his own delight.

"I'll go after those gla.s.ses," he said promptly. "Sure it's good stuff, Charlie?"

"Wouldn't drink it myself if I wasn't, would I? Hustle up--I'm ready for a drink right now."

Tempted beyond his strength, the faithless keeper of the Hambleton lockup departed on winged feet. He was back in remarkably quick time, a checkerboard under his coat and two bar gla.s.ses in his pockets. A last feeble flicker of responsibility stayed his hand an instant as he opened the cell door.

"No tricks, Charlie!"

"'Course not. Cross my heart and hope to die."

With the doors locked and no windows through which they could be seen, they sat themselves confidently at a small table, a gla.s.s at each side, the checkerboard between them and the precious bottle on the floor within easy reach. The proceedings opened with one apiece.

"A-a-a-ah!"

"Told you it was good, didn't I? Have another."

"Thanks. This is like old times. Black moves first."

"Teach your grandmother. Chin-chin."

"If that's bootleg, it's good enough for me."

"It ain't, though. He gets it from Canada himself."

"An empty gla.s.s is a mournful sight. Thanks. Your move."

They played and drank and drank and played. Moody won most of the games, which suited both of them. An hour pa.s.sed. There was lots of time, Charlie told himself. He wasn't due at Drusilla's until eleven-thirty--the rendezvous she had made in the event that all went well. On the other hand, he was beginning to feel the effect of the whisky he was drinking. It wouldn't do to get tight himself. Better speed things up a bit, then take a walk for half an hour or so before going to Drusilla's--

"Em-py glash--mournful shight."

Charlie's left hand hovered an instant over the mournful sight, his fingers crumbling something; then he picked up the gla.s.s and filled it.

"A-a-a-ah."

Five minutes later he was half-carrying, half-dragging the inert figure of his jailer to the cell which by rights he should have been occupying himself. He dropped Moody on the narrow cot, relieved him of his keys and stepped out, grinning as he locked the door behind him. It would be a long, long time before the recreant warder awakened to discovery and disgrace. No one from outside would come near the place until eight or nine in the morning; he had oceans of time in which to make good his escape before the alarm could be given.

He possessed himself of a slouch hat that he found in Moody's room and drew its brim well down over his eyes, then cautiously unlocked the back door of the jail. This gave on to a narrow, unlighted alley, which led to a quiet side-street. There was little chance of his meeting any one at that hour of the night. After a quick survey which a.s.sured him the alley was deserted, he left the building and locked the door.

The fresh night air after the stuffy atmosphere of the jail hit him hard. It sent the potent fumes of the whisky to his head, and by the time he had reached the end of the alley he was staggering perceptibly.

He vaguely realized his condition and the peril it implied, and paused for an instant at the first corner to steady himself against the wall of a building while he strove to clear his brain. He jerked off his hat to give the air access to his head, too fuddled to note that a street-lamp not ten yards away was shining directly on his face.

Then a tight grip fastened on his arm and he was pushed back into the obscurity of the alley.

"Charlie Maxon, by glory! Who let _you_ out?"

"Wh-who are you?"

"Who am I? Well, that's pretty good! Mean to say you can't _see_ me?

I'm Langhorn!"

_XII: Starlight on Steel_

When he had finished his examination of the broken window in the living-room, Herman Krech contrived--partly by his sheer physical bulk and partly by the exercise of a soft a.s.sertiveness that was saved by his bland geniality from being plain rudeness--to sequester Simon Varr for a word in private. To accomplish this end he was obliged to shake off his own wife, the tanner's wife, the Jason Bolts and Miss Ocky Copley, the last lady in especial revealing the pertinacity of a c.o.c.kle-burr in her objection to being shaken off. Krech didn't succeed in losing her until he had shut the door of the study in her face with a courteously affected air of absent-mindedness.

"What do you want?" inquired Varr ungraciously.

"I've got a message for you--sorry if I'm intruding," replied the big man, half-amused and half-resentful at his host's tone. "I'm afraid it will annoy you--but most things do, don't they? But Creighton thought it best to give you a tip and of course I feel obliged to pa.s.s it on as received."

"All right. What is it?" said the tanner less irascibly.

"Practically a repet.i.tion of the warning I gave you this morning on my own account. I read him that note over the telephone. He said it sounded like the work of a nut, and added that a bad nut is often a dangerous proposition. He thinks you should take reasonable precautions against a personal attack at least until he gets here."