“There are no others,” he said, “only the Frog himself. He comes up the quarry face—there’s a flight of steps that come up under the hut. Good idea, eh? The hut hangs over the edge, and you can’t even see the steps, not if you hang over. I tried once. They’d never catch him, not if they brought forty million cops.” “Suppose they surrounded the quarry?” suggested Genter, but the man scoffed. “Wouldn’t he know it was being surrounded before he came in? He knows everything, does the Frog.” He looked down at the other’s hand. “It won’t hurt,” he said, “and it’s worth it if it does! You’ll never be without a friend again, Harry. If you get into trouble, there’s always the best lawyer to defend you. And you’re the kind of chap we’re looking for—there is plenty of trash. Poor fools that want to get in for the sake of the pickings. But you’ll get big work, and if you do a special job for him, there’s hundreds and hundreds of money for you! If you’re hungry or ill, the Frogs will find you out and help you. That’s pretty good, ain’t it?” Genter said nothing. They were within a dozen yards of the hut now, a strong structure built of stout timber bulks, with one door and a shuttered window. Motioning Genter to remain where he was, the man called Carlo went forward and tapped on the door. Genter heard a voice, and then he saw the man step to the window, and the shutter open an inch. There followed a long conversation in an undertone, and then Carlo came back. “He says he has a job for you that will bring in a thousand—you’re lucky! Do you know Rochmore?” Genter nodded. He knew that aristocratic suburb. “There’s a man there that has got to be coshed. He comes home from his club every night by the eleven-five. Walks to his house. It is up a dark road, and a fellow could get him with a club without trouble. Just one smack and he’s finished. It’s not killing, you understand.” “Why does he want me to do it?” asked the tall tramp curiously. The explanation was logical. “All new fellows have to do something to show their pluck and straightness. What do you say?” Genter had not hesitated. “I’ll do it,” he said. Carlo returned to the window, and presently he called his companion. “Stand here and put your left arm through the window,” he ordered. Genter pulled back the cuff of his soddened coat and thrust his bare arm through the opening. His hand was caught in a firm grip, and immediately he felt something soft and wet pressed against his wrist. A rubber stamp, he noted mentally, and braced himself for the pain which would follow. It came, the rapid pricking of a thousand needles, and he winced. Then the grip on his hand relaxed and he withdrew it, to look wonderingly on the blurred design of ink and blood that the tattooer had left. “Don’t wipe it,” said a muffled voice from the darkness of the hut. “Now you may come in.”