What had they to ask, or she to answer? She knew of nothing that she could inform them upon. Who were these men who were detaining her? During the next hours she asked herself these questions over and over again. She grew faint with hunger and thirst, but the viands spread upon the table she did not touch. The mystery of her capture bewildered her. Of what value was she to these men? All the time the murmur of voices in the room below was continuous. Once or twice she heard a voice raised in anger. Once a door slammed, and somebody went clattering down the stairs. There was a door-keeper, she could hear him speak with the outgoer. Did she but know it, the question that perplexed her was an equal matter of perplexity with others in the house that evening. The notorious men upon whom she had looked, all innocent of their claim to notoriety, were themselves puzzled. Bat Sands, the man who looked so ill--he had the unhealthy appearance of one who had just come through a long sickness--was an inquirer. Vennis--nobody knew his Christian name--was another, and they were two men whose inquiries were not to be put off. Vennis turned his dull fish eyes upon big Connor, and spoke with deliberation. “Connor, what’s this girl business? Are we in it?” Connor knew his men too well to temporize. “You’re in it, if it’s worth anything,” he said slowly. Bat’s close-cropped red head was thrust forward. “Is there money in it?” he demanded. Connor nodded his head. “Much?” Connor drew a deep breath. If the truth be told, that the “Lot” should share, was the last thing he had intended. But for the blundering of his agent, they would have remained in ignorance of the girl’s presence in the house. But the very suspicion of disloyalty was dangerous. He knew his men, and they knew him. There was not a man there who would hesitate to destroy him at the merest hint of treachery. Candor was the best and safest course. “It’s pretty hard to give you any idea what I’ve got the girl here for, but there’s a million in it,” he began. He knew they believed him. He did not expect to be disbelieved. Criminals of the class these men represented flew high. They were out of the ruck of petty, boasting sneak-thieves who lied to one another, knowing they lied, and knowing that their hearers knew they lied. Only the strained, intent look on their faces gave any indication of how the news had been received. “It’s old Reale’s money,” he continued; “he’s left the lot to four of us. Massey’s dead, so that makes three.” There was no need to explain who was Reale, who Massey. A week ago Massey had himself sat in that room and discussed with Connor the cryptic verse that played so strange a part in the old man’s will. He had been, in a way, an honorary member of the “Borough Lot.” Connor continued. He spoke slowly, waiting for inspiration. A judicious lie might save the situation. But no inspiration came, and he found his reluctant tongue speaking the truth.