“Well, to-night we'll get that stuff, all of it--it's worth a cool half million; and to-night we'll get Mr. House-Detective Cloran for keeps--bump him off. That cleans everything up. How does that strike you, Bertha?” Rhoda Gray's hands under her shawl locked tightly together. Her premonition had not betrayed her. She was face to face to-night with the beginning of the end. “It sounds fine!” she said derisively. Danglar's eyes narrowed for an instant; and then he laughed. “You're a rare one, Bertha!” he ejaculated again. “You don't seem to put much stock in your husband lately.” “Why should I?” she inquired imperturbably. “Things have been breaking fine, haven't they?--only not for us!” She cleared her throat as though it were an effort to talk. “I'm not going crazy with joy till I've been shown.” Danglar leaned suddenly over the table. “Well, come and look at the cards, then,” he said impressively. “Pull your chair up to the table, and I'll tell you.” Rhoda Gray tilted her chair, instead, nonchalantly back against the wall--it was quite light enough where she was! “I can hear you from here,” she said coolly. “I'm not deaf, and I guess Matty's suite is safe enough so that you won't have to whisper all the time!” The deformed creature at the table chortled again. Danglar scowled. “Damn you, Bertha!” he flung out savagely. “I could wring that neck of yours sometimes, and--” “I know you could, Pierre,” she interposed sweetly. “That's what I like about you--you're so considerate of me! But suppose you get down to cases. What's the story about those sparklers? And what's the game that's going to let me shed this Gypsy Nan stuff for keeps?”