“Brockey, I knows wot game youse is working?” “I am working no game. I’m on my uppers.” “Don’t try ter gi’ me eny game like dat, now, ’cause I’m on to de hull layout.” “You----” “Wait.” “I----” “Brockey Gann, I tort youse’s never’d go back on an old pal in dis way.” “I’m not going back on you, Mugsey.” “Youse is when youse refuse to let me in on de game, so dat I kin git some o’ de graft.” “You talk in riddles.” “I seed one t’ing.” “What’s that?” “I’ve got to speak more plain.” “You will.” “Den here goes--don’t youse blame me if eny one hears it an’ youse git into a trap. Las’ winter youse was paid to----” “Wait, Mugsey.” Brockey bent forward. A strange expression was in his eyes. “I’m waitin’, Brockey,” Carter said, and he returned the rascal’s searching gaze. “Where were you last night?” Brockey asked. Carter laughed. “Youse is comin’ to yer milk now, Brockey,” he remarked. “Were you in this place last night?” “Wot’s de use o’ talking here? It ain’t safe, Brockey. Le’ me gi’ you a tip. Nick Carter may turn up here eny moment, an’ youse an’ me might not be able to git on to him, see?” Brockey uttered an oath. His face turned pale. He glanced over his shoulder and his eyes wandered about the room. “Ain’t my advice sensible?” the detective asked. “I guess it is,” Brockey replied. “Den le’s git out o’ here.” “All right. But I’ll be hanged if I can understand what----” “I’ll explain everything, Brockey.” “Where’ll we go?” “Ter a quiet crib dat I knows about.” “Is it far?” “No.” The two men arose from the table and hurried out of the saloon. Carter was playing a dangerous game. Would he be able to carry it through successfully to the end? At any moment he was liable to make a slip and Brockey would then be able to penetrate his disguise. So far he had deceived the rascal. As they left the saloon the detective breathed easier. He had succeeded in getting Brockey away from his friends. That was a great point gained. They turned into Macdougal Street. “Where are you goin’?” Brockey asked, after they had reached Fourth Street. “Not far,” Carter replied. “I’ve got a room around here in Fo’rt’ Street.” “When did you hire it?” “Ter-day.” “Oh!” “Here it is.” The detective led the way into a private house. Brockey’s suspicions were not aroused. If he had been aware that he was being led into a trap like a lamb to slaughter he would have then and there made a desperate fight. Carter had rented a room in this house for years, and he had used it frequently. He opened the door of the room with a key. The house was as quiet as a graveyard. “This is a quiet joint,” Brockey said, as he followed the detective into the room and gazed around. There was nothing about the place to indicate for what purpose it had been used by the detective. It was nothing more, to all outward appearances, than a plainly furnished bedroom.