"If it isn't,"--he looked at her kindly, but keenly, from under his heavy lids--"I shall want you to let me know just as soon as O'Malley begins to make preparations for registering voters from this house." Rose bent forward and kissed him lightly on his flaccid cheek. "That's easy," she laughed. "Perhaps, but if you have to go so far at first, you will have to go farther afterward." "An' now?" "Just now I want you to keep your ears open for gossip. You are in a position to hear a lot: in this house men talk that are dumb outside." "Who are you thinkin' of?" "Several people, friends of O'Malley's. There's one cheap little camp-follower who, I am told, gets around here rather frequently. I don't suppose that he's of enough importance to know much, but he would be worth watching." "What's his name?" Dyker filled Rose's glass, and poured more wine for himself. "Angelelli," he answered. From the darkened kitchen, Violet, her eye now fast to the keyhole, drew a short breath, and watched Rose as the sophisticated spectator watches an emotional actress when she approaches her "big scene." But Rose, still the primitive Teuton of the brewery-calendar, never quavered. "Rafael Angelelli?" she inquired. "I think so. He is a little Italian loafer with no work and plenty of money. You know him, of course?" "Sure I know him. He's in an' out of here all the time. We call him 'Angel'." "Hum. Well, there are angels and angels, so that name may fit him as well as any other. There may be nothing to it, but he does hang about O'Malley a good deal, and it might be worth your while to find out what, if anything, he knows." "That's easy," purred Rose. "Here's success." The pair clinked their glasses, and drained them. "And--Rose?" began Dyker. "Yes?" "Neither this little fellow nor any of his crowd knows about--us?" Rose's placid smile was eminently convincing. "I guess I know my business," she said. "I dare say you do. Only don't let him know that you know mine." "Trust me for that, Wes' dear." "Because, if O'Malley could get hold of it, he would have a rather formidable weapon." "He doesn't know I ever set my lamps on you." "Good," said Dyker; "and he mustn't know it for a good many months to come. Now, then, let's have just one pint more between us--only a pint--my dear--and----" But the woman at the keyhole waited to hear no more. IX THE COURT OF A MERCHANT-PRINCE