“I couldn't see that they even paid any attention to those women squalling upstairs when we did the job,” was the tall man's opinion. “Handy night, say you? Why, that man we braced up to and asked where was Britt's boarding house, he seemed to have so much of his own business on his mind that he wasn't wondering a mite what our business with Britt might be.” “Get busy!” said the other convict. “That business is only just beginning.” There was a stir of feet. “Hold on!” It was the voice of Wagg, mumbling cautiously. “Tie your handkerchiefs over your faces like I'm doing.” “Right!” the short man agreed. “Always leave 'em guessing when you say good-by!” A few moments later Wagg lifted the flap; Vaniman saw him outlined against the fog. The convicts reached in and pulled Britt out, and the flap was dropped. “Look out!” the short man warned. “Loosen that towel only a little and hold your clutch on his gullet, bo! We're not any too far from that road, and we'll understand the good news if he'll only whisper it.” After a few moments he went on. “Man, we've got you--got you foul! You know where that gold coin is. Shut up! No argument. You tell us where it is. Then you won't get hurt. If you don't tell us, you _will_ get hurt. Get busy with your mouth!” In spite of his abhorrence at this method of extorting the truth, Vaniman was conscious of a feeling of comradeship with the three rapscallions at that moment. They were merely seeking loot. He was seeking the re-establishment of his honor and his love. He waited in the tense silence, straining every nerve to hear. No sound came to him. He wondered whether Britt, cowed, was whispering the information. “Get busy, I tell you!” Evidently the prisoner was obstinate. Minute after minute the short man labored with the captive, the snarl in his insisting voice deepening into the diapason of malevolent threat. But Britt said no word. Vaniman, feeling that all the prospects of his life were at stake, decided to play a waiting game. In spite of their culpable motive, the men outside were serving as his aides in the crucial moment. They were demanding information which the usurer owed to the innocent. “Oh, very well,” said the master of ceremonies. “We'll go on with the rest of the program, then. One of you bring that side lamp and light it. And help me get this towel tighter. He's going to try some squalling.” Vaniman saw the flare of the lamp past the edge of the flap. He set his teeth and decided that he would not interfere. When he heard sounds which, muffled in the towel, were like the whines and grunts of a tortured animal, he stiffened his determination to await the issue. “Now loosen the gag and let him talk! I reckon he has found something to say.” Vaniman heard louder groans. But Britt gave out no information. “Back with the talk-tickler! Hold it closer! The same foot! We've got a good start on that one.”