"Dead sure!" responded O'Hearn. "The regular bulls ain't touching mining operations just now. It's up to the Secret Service. In two weeks more they'll be all cleaned up on the war, and then they'll be reorganizing their little committee on high finance. That there Inspector Laughlin will take charge. He knows you, Boss. Then"--O'Hearn spread his hands with a gesture of finality--"about a week more and they'll get round to us. Three weeks is all we're safe to go. They stop our mail and then--the pinch maybe. The tip's straight from you-know-who. The pinch--see!" At the repetition of that word "pinch," Byan's countenance changed subtly. It was as though he had winced within. But he spoke in his usual velvety tone. "Less than three weeks--h'm! How much is Cowler good for?" "About a hundred thou'--big or nothing," replied Warner. He was drawing stars and circles on the desk blotter. "He can't be landed without the girl. If he'd tumbled for the Lizzies you shook at him--but he didn't--it's this red-headed doll in our office or nothing. And I've told you--" Here O'Hearn threw himself abruptly into the conversation. "Lave out th' girrul," he said. Usually O'Hearn's Irish showed in his speech only by a slight twist at the turn of his tongue. Now it reverted to a thick brogue. "I'll not have anythin' to do--" "We'll leave in or take out exactly what I say," put in Warner smoothly. "Exactly what I say," he repeated. At this direct thrust, Byan lifted his somewhat dreamy eyes. He dropped them again. Then Warner, his gaze directly on O'Hearn's face, made a swift, sinister gesture. He drew a forefinger round his own throat, and completed the motion by pointing directly upward. O'Hearn, his face suddenly going a little pale, subsided. Warner broke into the sweet, Christian smile of his office manner. Subtly, he seemed to take command. His personality filled the room as he leaned forward over the table and summed everything up.