Over the mantelpiece was a big, old clock, with a face so faded that only a portion of the letters remained. Its noisy ticking had usually a sedative effect on the doctor. But its main purpose and value was its accuracy. Every day it was corrected by a message from Greenwich, and as Oberzohn’s success as an organizer depended upon exact timing, it was one of his most valuable assets. He glanced up at the clock now, and that gave Cuccini his excuse. “We’ll be getting along, doctor,” he said. “You don’t want anything to-night? I’d like to get a cut at that Gonsalez man. You won’t leave me out if there’s anything doing?” Oberzohn rose and went out of the room without another word, for he knew that the rising of Cuccini was a signal that not only was the business of the day finished, but also that the gang needed its pay. Every gang-leader attended upon Mr. Oberzohn once a week with his pay-roll, and it was usually the custom for the Herr Doktor to bring his cash-box into the room and extract sufficient to liquidate his indebtedness to the leader. It was a big box, and on pay-day, as this was, filled to the top with bank-notes and Treasury bills. He brought it back now, put it on the table, consulted the little slip that Cuccini offered to him, and, taking out a pad of notes, fastened about by a rubber band, he wetted his finger and thumb. “You needn’t count them,” said Cuccini. “We’ll take the lot.” The doctor turned to see that Cuccini was carelessly holding a gun in his hand. “The fact is, doctor,” said Cuccini coolly, “we’ve seen the red light, and if we don’t skip now, while the skipping’s good, there’s going to be no place we can stay comfortable in this little island, and I guess we’ll follow Gurther.” One glance the doctor gave at the pistol and then he resumed his counting, as though nothing had happened. “Twenty, thirty, forty, fifty . . .” “Now quit that,” said Cuccini roughly. “I tell you, you needn’t count.” “My friend, I prefer to know what I am going to lose. It is a pardonable piece of curiosity.” He raised his hand to the wall, where a length of cord hung, and pulled at it gently, without taking his eyes from the bank-notes. “What are you doing? Put up your hands!” hissed Cuccini. “Shoot, I beg.” Oberzohn threw a pad of notes on the table. “There is your pay.” He slammed down the lid of the box. “Now you shall go, if you _can_ go! Do you hear them?” He raised his hand, and to the strained ears of the men came a gentle rustling sound from the passage outside as though somebody were dragging a piece of parchment along the floor. “Do you hear? You shall go if you can,” said the doctor again, with amazing calmness. “The snakes!” breathed Cuccini, going white, and the hand that held the pistol shook.