He went from the scene of the interview almost straight to Mulberry Street; he entered police headquarters and made his way to the superintendent’s private office, where he handed the roll of money to a young man. “Lock it up,” said he. “We’ll talk about it later. I’m rather tired of this beard,” and Carter immediately stood revealed. CHAPTER XXXI. IN MOTHER FLINTSTONE’S DEN AGAIN. The day following these exciting events George Richmond might have been seen bending over a manuscript in a small room some distance from Claude Lamont’s apartments. He had been diligently at work upon the document for some hours, now and then refreshing himself from a bottle on the table. The chirography was not his own. It looked for all the world like the writing of an old person taken with the palsy, and the man at work smiled every now and then as he looked at his job. “It’s good for the two hundred thousand,” said he, half aloud. “That was a cute bargain Claude made with the old nabob. I am to vanish, of course; but I’ll see that I don’t lose any of my share. I am to be killed off, and this paper is to fall into Lamont’s hands, to be consigned of course to the flames. He’ll probably consider it cheap at two hundred thousand, but I’ll take care that Claude doesn’t really carry out the bargain.” The day had deepened into night, and still George Richmond worked. He did not stop till the nearest clock struck eight, and then he finished his self-imposed task. Once more, like a good accountant, he glanced over his pages and stuffed them into an old envelope prepared for the occasion. “That settles it,” he remarked. “Now for the proof of my demise, ha, ha!” He thrust the whole into his pocket and buttoned his coat over it. After this he turned the gas low and filled the room with shadows, then pulled his soft hat over his forehead and left the house. He did not know that he was seen to quit the place. He was not aware of the fact that during the last part of his work a pair of foxlike eyes were watching him through a rent in the curtain, thanks to a broken slat in the shutter. The owner of these eyes was on his trail. It was a boy, shrewd and wiry, and he kept George Richmond in sight, no matter how many turns he made. Mulberry Billy had not played spy upon this man for nothing. While he could not see the writing, he felt that it was for no good, and thus he slipped after the man as he crossed one street after another, taking himself into a strange part of New York. George Richmond visited a well-known cheap café on the Bowery and had a plain supper, after which, once more buttoning his coat to his chin, he sauntered out under the lights. Billy was still his ferret. The boy tracked the man to the house occupied at times by Claude Lamont. He saw him mount the steps, but could not see beyond the door. George Richmond entered the library and turned on the light. There he looked around the room, but did not see any one.