“Better be sure, my man. I wouldn’t want the desk smashed.” “I’ll risk it. If it’s smashed, it comes out o’ my pay.” There were other things that couldn’t come out of the man’s pay, if the rigging let go, and Patsy was as near in a flutter as his nerve ever allowed him to be. A hawser was put around the desk both ways. Then Patsy heard a hook made fast. A moment later one of the men went down. In three minutes, the big roll-top desk was out of the window, swinging in mid air. The rope creaked and something gave so that the piece of furniture dropped a foot. “Steady!” whooped the man whose pay was to be docked in case of accident. “Yes, for Heaven’s sake,” muttered Patsy. Down went the desk, the man inside breathing only when necessary until it safely rested on the walk. To load the desk in the wagon did not take much time, and the van hadn’t gone a block before Patsy had exerted sufficient pressure to break the lock. The rattle of the vehicle drowned the noise he had to make, and he pushed up the top, slipped to the floor of the van, and dropped out. The two men on the seat of the van drove on, all unconscious of what had happened, and Patsy, the moment he struck the sidewalk, drew a sleeve across his dripping forehead. “That was a corker!” he muttered. “I wonder if I’ve lost the trail?” He had lost the trail, as he quickly found, for Ramsay and Starlick had vanished from the building in which they had been but a few minutes before. “I’ll slide around to the house and tell Nick about it,” said Patsy to himself. “He may want to give me fresh instructions.” Nick Carter was not at the house, however, nor was Chick. They had gone out together, Patsy was told. He waited a long time for one or the other to return, but they did not come. “I’ll have to go to Boucicault’s,” thought Patsy; “and I can’t wait any longer for Nick.” Before he went, he left the following memorandum on Nick’s desk: “Yasmar’s real name is Ramsay. Latter name used by his pals. Guess he is one of the two men you want. Ramsay and his side partner, Starlick, are to meet a man named Gillman in Boucicault’s place, Hamilton Street, Brooklyn, at ten to-night. Look out for a couple of boxes of doped cigarettes. PATSY.” CHAPTER VI. A SMOOTH GAME. On Wednesday afternoon a prosperous-looking gentleman, of apparently about fifty years of age, entered the private offices of Cruse & Cupell, on Twenty-Third Street. “Mr. Cruse?” he asked, halting at a desk. “Mr. Cruse is out,” answered a man at the desk. “I’m Mr. Cupell.” “My card.” The caller handed over a bit of pasteboard bearing the name, “Mr. Jefferson Jones.” “I’m from Albany,” went on Mr. Jones, “and I have run down to be present at the assay of the Royal Ophir ore.” “Ah,” murmured Mr. Cupell. “Won’t you sit down, Mr. Jones? There’s a paper at your elbow. I expect Mr. Bates and the other gentlemen at any moment.” Jefferson Jones took the chair and the paper.