“Take me for a thief?” replied Hennessey, swinging the bag behind him. Hennessey proffered the bag to his master, but Jennings said: “Wait a minute.” Then he ran his hand wrist-deep into his pocket and drew out a paper, which he examined critically, squinting his eyes, partly to protect them from the smoke that curled up from a big domestic cigar, partly--as it seemed, to assist in the concentration of his thoughts. “Gineral,” he said--by some strange confusion of ideas, down in Springfield they give the attorney-general a military title, which custom that functionary fosters--“Gineral, will you give me your signature to that, ’fore you start?” Grigsby glowered at Jennings, read the paper, said somewhat petulantly, “Oh, of course,” and hesitatingly signed it. “Now, Hennessey,” said Jennings, carefully placing the paper in a long pocket-book he drew from the region of his left hip. Hennessey held the bag out toward the secretary of state. “No,” said Jennings, who was pouring himself a drink, “give it to the gineral.” The attorney-general took the bag and opened it. Inside were four big bundles of bank bills. He lifted them out. Each bundle was composed of ten smaller packages, held by rubber bands, and each package was bound with a pink paper strap neatly pinned and marked “five hundred.” He counted and replaced the packages in the bag. Then taking his coat and hat, he turned to Jennings and said: “Well, let’s be gone.” The secretary of state rolled his head toward the attorney-general, waved his long arm and flapped his hand fin-like at him, and said: “We’ll wait here, Mike and me. You won’t need us.” The attorney-general scowled, and then went out, accompanied only by the assistant state treasurer. Hurrying down Capitol Avenue, Grigsby shivered, glancing up dark alleys. * * * * *