_The following Account of a Series of Occurrences in the Jamaica Plain District of Boston during the year 1920, and Certain Facts Relating Thereto, was dictated by Mr. Andrew H. Barnes, who claims to be one of the Only Two Persons now living who have a knowledge of the True Solution of the Affair. The Recital of these things as set forth by him is in the main Correctly Reported. The Language Used is as close an approach to his own as could be managed with the rapid stenography required._ H. McC. People who didn’t know—and let me tell you at the start that few did—could hardly avoid the supposition, on being shown into the offices of the Messrs. Harker & Pentecost, that they were entering the headquarters of a long-established, prosperous firm, evidently of high standing and doing a conservative and wisely managed business. Conclusions such as these are by no means beyond what furniture, fittings, and employees are able to convey, and Mr. Pentecost had seen to it that all these things had done a part toward so conveying it. Everything of the best quality, and more important still, not new—nothing to suggest the flashily fine furnishings so often associated with flashily conducted business. Three years and three months before this time at which I’m calling your attention to the firm’s office, they didn’t have any, and Mr. Hugo Pentecost had Mr. Stephen W. Harker in such a double-twisted strangle grip that it was either hand over whatever price the former named or the latter went to jail. There was only one answer to that, and when Mr. Harker said, “Name the loot, you bastard,” expecting a response of, “I’ll take the pot!” he was considerably surprised to get no answer at all. Pentecost—bullet-headed—regarded him with glassy, half-closed eyes. Harker—slim, dapper, perfectly dressed, with a pleasant, attractive face (which was a pearl without price in his business) finally broke the silence. “What’s masticating you?” he said. “You’ve got me cold, haven’t you? Go on an’ give it a name!” Pentecost spoke in a low, soft voice. “I’ll take the business,” he said. “One minute, George. I’m on to you from the send-off—see? You’re the guy that drops down on the boys when they’ve been working hard for it an’ rakes ’em for ninety per cent! Quite a name you’ve made for yourself! Know what they call you in the Mercer Street joints? ‘The Vulture’—that’s what they’ve put on you!” “Fitting, too,” was the quiet rejoinder. “Vultures prey on the dead ones.” “I can cough twenty grand. Do you want it?” “You can cough forty-six, but I don’t want it. The business will do for the present.” “Get to hell with it. My business is _my_ business. Where do you cop the idea I can pass it around?” “No passing around—I declare myself in.” Harker—a man seldom surprised and never showing it—stood looking at Pentecost, amazement concealed behind his “dead” face. “In on my game?” he finally asked.