“Was Mollie and Agnes sloughed in?” asked Louie, whose practical mind went first to his breadwinners. “No, they faded into th' next street. Th' cop don't want to pinch 'em anyway.” “About Laura; was she hoited much?” “Ten stiches, an' a week in Roosevelt Hospital; that's the best she can get.” “I must chase round an' look her over,” was Louie's anxious conclusion. “W'at's that Dago joint she's at?” “It's be th' corner,” said the Grabber, “an' up stairs. I forgets the wop's monaker.” As Louie hesitated over these vague directions, the Grabber set down his glass. “Say, to show there's no hard feelin', I'll go wit' youse.” As Louie and the Grabber disappeared through the door, Candy Phil threw up both hands as one astonished to the verge of nervous shock. “Well, w'at do youse think of that?” he exclaimed. “I always figgered Louie had bats in his belfry; now I knows it. They'll croak him sure!” Nigger Ruhl and the Lobster Kid arose as though to follow. At this, Candy Phil broke out fiercely. “W'at's wrong wit' youse stews? Stick where you be!” “But they'll cook Louie!” expostulated the Lobster Kid. “It ain't no skin off your nose if they do. W'y should youse go buttin' in?” Louie and the Grabber were in Twelfth Street, hurrying towards Second Avenue. Not a soul, except themselves, was abroad. The Grabber walked on Louie's right, which showed that either the latter was not the gunplayer he pretended, or the word from Laura had thrown him off his guard. Suddenly, as the pair passed a dark hallway, the Grabber's left arm stole round Louie's neck. “About that dough, Louie!” hissed the Grabber, at the same time tightening his left arm. Louie half turned to free himself from the artful Grabber. As he did so, the Grabber's ready right hand brought his pistol into action, and one bullet and then another flashed through Louie's brain. A slim form rushed out of the dark hallway, and fired two bullets into Louie's body. Louie was dead before he struck the pavement. The Grabber, with his slim companion, darted through the dark hallway, out a rear door and over a back fence. Sixty seconds later they were quietly walking in Thirteenth Street, examples of law-abiding peace. “It was th' easiest ever, Slimmy!” whispered the Grabber, when he had recovered his breath. “I knew that stall about Laura'd fetch him.” “Who was at th' Hesper Club?” “On'y Candy Phil, th' Lobster Kid an' two or three other blokes. Every one of 'em's a right guy. They won't rap.” “Thim la-a-ads,” remarked the Wop, judiciously, when he heard of Louie's taking off--“thim la-a-ads musht 'av lost their heads. There's six or seven hundred bones on that bum, an' they niver copped a splinter!” The word came two ways to the Central Office. One report said “Indian Louie” and another “Johnny Spanish.” Detective O'Farrell invaded Chinatown, and dug up Big Mike Abrams, that the doubt might be removed.