But now old George was under a cloud. Notwithstanding the fact that he had been found amongst his live stock securely bound to a chair, with a handkerchief over his mouth, suspicion attached to him. How had Angel worked away in the upper room without old George’s knowledge? Angel might have easily explained. Indeed, Angel might have relieved their minds to a very large extent in regard to old George, for in marking down the haunt of the “Borough Lot” he had been entirely deceived as to the part played by the old man who acted as “caretaker” to the “empty” house. In a fourwheeled cab old George, smiling foolishly and passing his hand from time to time over his tremulous mouth, listened to the admonitions of Mr. Bat Sands. “Connor wants to know all about it,” said Bat menacingly; “and if you have been playing tricks, old man, the Lord help you.” “The Lord help me,” smiled old George complacently. He ran his dirty fingers through his few scanty white locks, and the smile died out of his face, and his loose mouth dropped pathetically. “Mr. Sands,” he said, then stopped; then he repeated the name to himself a dozen times; then he rubbed his head again. Bat, leaning forward to catch what might be a confession, sank back again in his seat and swore softly. In the house of “J. Jones, Builder and Contractor,” were gathered in strength the men who composed the “Borough Lot.” “Suppose he gave us away,” asked Goyle, “what shall we do with him?” There was little doubt as to the feeling of the meeting. A low animal growl, startling in its ferocity, ran through the gathering. “If he’s given us away”--it was Vinnis with his dull fishlike eyes turned upon Connor who was talking--“why, we must ‘out’ him.” “You’re talking like a fool,” said Connor contemptuously. “If he has given us away, you may rest assured that he is no sooner in this house than the whole place will be surrounded by police. If Angel knows old George is one of us, he’ll be watched day and night, and the cab that brings him will be followed by another bringing Angel. No, I’ll stake my life on the old man. But I want to know how Mr. Cursed Angel got into the house next door.” They had not long to wait, for Bat’s knock came almost as Connor finished speaking. Half led, half dragged into the room, old George stood, fumbling his hat in his hand, smiling helplessly at the dark faces that met his. He muttered something under his breath. “What’s that?” asked Connor sharply. “I said, a gentleman----” began old George, then lapsed into silence. “What gentleman?” asked Connor roughly.