“Try your hand, Mark,” I said, and he did. It was, however, the first and last time while we worked together. Mark made an appointment to meet Radford at Chris Connor’s place in Fourteenth Street, near Broadway, at eight o’clock in the evening, and went there in a cab. He turned over to Radford sixty-three hundred dollars, the ten per cent we agreed to give the police. It was in bills, wrapped in brown paper. Radford put it in his pocket. There was wine bought to celebrate the settlement, with the result that, nine o’clock coming, Radford had added not a little to a comfortable “jag” he had acquired before the meeting. Mark found the detective troublesome and once or twice the latter was on the point of a quarrel. And, too, he accused Mark of putting up a job to get him off the force. Of course this was a fancy of his drink-crazed brain, and, more to protect him than anything else, Mark suggested that they drive to the Metropolitan Hotel to see Jack McCord. This seemed to suit Radford. They got in the cab and were soon whirling down Broadway. At Ninth Street, Radford turned to Mark and, saying something incoherent, tore the package of money from his pocket and threw it out of the window. The cab was stopped and Mark ran back more than a block in search of the money. He heard Radford shout back in a thick way, “You can’t put up a job on me.” Fortunately Mark’s activity resulted in recovering the money, though a moment later he would have been too late. A telegraph messenger boy running across Broadway had struck the package with his foot and was about to run off with the prize when Mark snatched it. Hurrying back, no one was there but cabby, Radford having disappeared through Ninth Street. Mark drove to his rooms in West Twenty-sixth Street, where he dismissed the cab. The next day Jack McCord sent for me and with great concern said, “Do you think Mark would put up a job on me and Radford?” “What!” I cried, “do you think we’re crazy? Why?” “Radford came to me last night, declaring Mark had given him money, but he didn’t know what became of it.” “I haven’t seen Mark,” said I, “but I’ll guarantee he’s all right.” “So I’ve believed,” said McCord, “but it’s queer somehow. Perhaps,” he added, “it’s the result of one of Radford’s drunks. He’s gone, and I’ll wait until he turns up. In the meantime will you see Shinburn?” I promised I would, and, accordingly, a few minutes later, Mark had heard from me Jack McCord’s story. At that he hauled the money from his pocket and tossed it at me. I looked the surprise I felt. “I thought you’d settled with Radford?” I said.