“That's rough,” said Dicky sympathetically. “I'm dead broke.” It would appear then that Dicky looked to me for pay, whether or not he felt bound to me in service. “There's one thing I'd like explained before a settlement,” said I grimly, as I straightened out the carpet; “and that is the little performance for my benefit the other night.” Dicky cocked his head on one side, and gave me an uneasy glance. “Explanation?” he said in affected surprise. “Yes,” said I sternly. “It looked like a plant. I was within one of getting a knife in me.” “What became of you?” inquired Dicky. “We looked around for you for an hour, and were afraid you had been carried off.” “That's all right, Dicky,” I said. “I know how I got out. What I want to know is how I got in--taken in.” “I don't know,” said Dicky anxiously. “I was regularly fooled, myself. I thought they were fishermen, all right enough, and I never thought that Terrill had the nerve to come in there. I was fooled by his disguise, and he gave the word, and I thought sure that Richmond had sent him.” Dicky had dropped all banter, and was speaking with the tone of sincerity. “Well, it's all right now, but I don't want any more slips of that sort. Who was hurt?” “Trent got a bad cut in the side. One of the Terrill gang was shot. I heard it was only through the arm or leg, I forget which.” I was consumed with the desire to ask what had become of Borton's, but I suspected that I was supposed to know, and prudently kept the question to myself. “Well, come along,” said I. “The room will do well enough now. Oh, here's a ten, and I'll let you know as soon as I get the rest. Where can I find you?” “At the old place,” said Dicky; “three twenty-six.” “Clay?” I asked in desperation. Dicky gave me a wondering look as though he suspected my mind was going. “No--Geary. What's the matter with you?” “Oh, to be sure. Geary Street, of course. Well, let me know if anything turns up. Keep a close watch on things.” Dicky looked at me in some apparent perplexity as I walked up the stair to my Clay Street office, but gave only some laughing answer as he turned back. But I was in far from a laughing humor myself. The problem of paying the men raised fresh prospects of trouble, and I reflected grimly that if the money was not found I might be in more danger from my unpaid mercenaries than from the enemy. Ten o'clock passed, and eleven, with no sign from Doddridge Knapp, and I wondered if the news I had carried him of the activities of Terrill and of Decker had disarranged his plans. I tried the door into Room 16. It was locked, and no sound came to my ears from behind it. “I should really like to know,” I thought to myself, “whether Mr. Doddridge Knapp has left any papers in his desk that might bear on the Wilton mystery.”