Mother Madlebaum peered over the counter at the gray-haired young man who held out an empty palm and asked for a loan on a mythical watch. She removed her spectacles, polished them with her black alpaca apron, and glanced shrewdly toward the door. “What a start you gave me, Chester. And me thinking all along you were lagged.” “Five C’s on the block,” laughed Fay pleasantly. “Remember the blue-white gems I brought you last time? Remember the swag, loot and plunder from the Hanover job? You made big on them.” “I always do with your stuff, Chester.” “Can you lend me five hundred? I’ve just beaten stir.” The old fence opened her safe and brought forth a money-drawer. Fay took the bills she handed to him, without counting them. He touched his hat and started toward the door. “Wait, Chester.” “What is it?” “Want to plant upstairs till the blow is over?” “No. I promised old Charley O’Mara I’d see his girl for him. Poor Charley is dead.” “He wasn’t in your class, Chester. Nobody is.” “Where’s the Dropper’s scatter?” “Five doors from the corner, on Harrison Street. Is the girl there?” “Yes.” “Then may God help her. You can’t!” Fay passed from the fence and lost himself in the clothing-department of a dry-goods store. He entered the place a carpenter--down in the heels and somewhat grimy from his train-ride. He emerged with a bamboo cane hooked over the sleeve of a shepherd-plaid suit. His hat was a flat-brimmed Panama, his shoes correct. A bath, shave, shampoo and haircut completed his metamorphosis. He left a barber-shop--the proper figure of a young man. He walked briskly, seeing everything. * * * * * There were detectives in that city--discerning ones. He avoided the main streets and crossings. Wolf-keen and alert for the police, he turned toward the dive where little Emily O’Mara lived. He distrusted the place and cursed himself for the venture. The Dropper’s reputation among the powers that preyed was--unsavory. There had been rumors in the old days that he was a pigeon. The den and joint he managed sheltered cheap dips, pennyweighters and store-histers who bragged of their miserable exploits. Fay entered the hallway that led up to the Dropper’s, like a duke paying a visit to a tenement. A gas-light flared the second landing. An ash-can, half filled with empty bottles, marked the third. Fay paused by this can, studied a fist-banged door, then knocked with light knuckles. As he waited for a chain to be unhooked and a slide to open, he sniffed the air of the hallway. Somewhere, some one was smoking opium. A brutish, shelving-browed, scar-crossed face appeared at the opening. Steely eyes drilled toward the cracksman. “What d’ye want here?” “Gee sip en quessen, hop en yen?” “Who to hell are yuh?” “A friend,” said Fay. “A man to see Charley O’Mara’s daughter.”