“That is the right attitude in this case. Why fight a lost cause?” said the Weasel cheerfully.

  “But,” said the count, a ray of hope appearing on his face, “why should my sister marry St. Ives at all? You want her money. Marriage is completely unnecessary. You can have six hundred thousand shilling and leave me Cora.”

  He stopped and waited for the reply. He believed he had fund out their goal, but he was wrong.

  “That wouldn’t be the same thing,” answered the Weasel. “Money without marriage would not do at all for our purposes.”

  “I can give you more,” said the count. “Give me six months and I will double the amount I’ve already offered.”

  The Weasel didn’t seem impressed by the magnitude of this offer.

  “I think,” he said, “it will be better for all to end this conversation, which, I must confess, is becoming quite annoying. You don’t know the men I deal with. You agreed to accept the conditions.”

  The count bowed his head and sighed. His eyes beamed fury. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

  “Good,” the Weasel continued. “I will take my leave now. But remember that as you fulfil your part of the deal, so we will keep to ours.”

  He put his hand on the handle of the door.

  The count said, “One more word. I can answer for myself and the countess, but how about my sister?”

  The Weasel’s face changed colors.

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “My sister may refuse to accept Mr. St. Ives.”

  “Why should she? He’s handsome, pleasant to talk to and has an agreeable nature.”

  “Still she may refuse him.”

  “If she objects,” said the old man, rubbing his skin, “you must let me talk to her for a few minutes and after that you will have no further difficulty with her.”

  “Why? What could you say to my sister?”

  “I would say...”

  “Well, what would you say?”

  “I would say that love for her is not new.”

  He tried to leave quickly through the half-opened door, but the count closed it violently.

  “You will not leave this room,” he cried, “until you have explained your insulting remark.”

  “I had no intention of offending you, sir,” said the Weasel humbly. “I only meant to say...” He stopped and then, with an air of sarcasm, which was strange for a person looking like him, said, “I’m aware that ladies of aristocratic families may do a lot of things without having their reputation compromised, where women in a lower social rank would be forever lost by the commission of anyone of them and I’m sure if the other noble families knew that your sister has been in the habit of passing her afternoons alone with a young doctor in his surgery...”

  He stopped and hastily took a knife from his pocket, because it seemed to him as if the count was about to throw himself on him.

  “Softly, come softly to me,” he cried. “Violence and insults are big mistakes. I have photos. I have more than ten times seen your sister enter the surgery in Oxford Street and ask for Dr. Frank Defoe and this was not when the surgery was open to patients.”

  The count felt as if he was choking. He tore off his cravat and cried wildly, “Proofs! Show me the photos!”

  The Weasel had slowly and skillfully moved away and now the heavy library table stood between himself and the count and he felt comparatively safe behind this defense.

  “Proofs?” he answered. “Do you think that I carry the photos around with me? In a week I could give you the lovers’ letters to each other. That, you may say, is too long to wait. You could also go to the doctor’s surgery in Oxford Street before eight o’clock tomorrow morning and enter his private room. There you will find a photo of your sister Cora. And a fine photo it is. Oh, la la.”

  “Leave now,” cried the count, “or I will strangle you.”

  The Weasel didn’t wait. He exited through the door and as soon as he was outside he cried out cheerfully, “Don’t forget the address, Number 545, Oxford Street. The name is Dr. Frank Defoe and be there before eight in the morning.”

  The count ran to him on hearing this last insult, but he was too late, because the Weasel slammed the door shut and was in the hall before the infuriated master of the house could open it. Newton resumed his humble attitude and took off his hat to the footmen as he descended the steps.

  “Yes,” he mumbled, as he walked down the stairway, “the idea was a good one. Frank Defoe will find out that he’s watched and will stay out of our business and now that Mr. Bletchley is aware that his sweet, pure sister has a lover, he will be only too happy to accept Baron St. Ives as his son-in-law.”

  The Weasel believed Cora to be more culpable than she really had been, because the idea of honorable love had never entered his mind. And neither had it her brother’s.

  The Weasel reached Joseph Kennan’s office half an hour later. He stood in front of the building and stared anxiously around.

  “I hope Chuff makes no mistakes,” he mumbled. “Surely my order was simple enough.”

  The old man looked around as Chuff was not at his newspaper stand. He got very cross as he noticed the missing man talking to a barmaid.

  “Chuff,” he called, “Chuff, come here.”

  Chuff heard him, because he looked around, but he didn’t move. He was much more interested in the conversation he was carrying on. The Weasel shouted again and this time more angrily than before and Chuff, reluctantly left the young lady and walked slowly up to his boss.

  “You have taken a nice time to get here,” said the newspaper man, looking at his dog. “I was just going to cut it. Ain’t you alright that you make such a noise? If you ain’t right, I’d better go for a doctor.

  “I don’t have time for jokes, Chuff.”

  “Yes and neither has the postman, when he’s behind time. I’m busy too, you know?”

  “Who’s that woman you just left?”

  “Yes. She’s a sharper nut than I am. How much do you earn every day, dear Weasel? Well, that lady makes her thirty shilling every night and does precious little for it. I should like a pub like that.”

  “Have patience.”

  Chuff completed a shrill cry of anger at these words.

  “Patience? I’m sixty-five and destined to sell papers all my life, while the rest are making money like regular clever night thieves.”

  “Have we done you any harm, my man?”

  “No! Luckily, I met Joseph Kennan and he set me up with this newspaper stand. He ain’t a bad one, is Joseph Kennan.”

  The Weasel curled his lip disdainfully.

  “Not a bad one? True, as long as you don’t ask him for anything.”

  Chuff was so surprised at hearing Newton say a negative word about his associate, that he was unable to speak another word.

  “I see you are surprised to hear my words,” continued the old man, “but, when a man is rolling in money and leaves an old friend to starve, then he’s not what I call a gentleman. My dear Chuff, you’re a bright man and so I don’t mind letting you know that I’m only waiting for a good moment to drop this Joseph Kennan and set up on my own. Work for yourself, my man, that’s the road to true riches.”

  “I know that, but it’s a good deal easier to say such than to do a thing like that.”

  “You have tried then?”

  “Yes, I have, but I came to grief over it. Mr. Kennan must have told you about it, when he paid my bail. However, I’ll tell you. One day, when I saw a lady with a goldmine in jewels on her person, who looked rather nervous get out of a cab, I followed her. I was decently togged out, so I rang at the door. I was so sure that I was going to make a haul that I didn’t take any precautions. Well, I rang, a woman opened the door and in I went. What an ass I made of myself! I found a great brute of a man there, who thrashed me within an inch of my life and then kicked me downstairs. See, he made his mark.” Removing his cap, the old man showed several bruises on his forehead. “Then he called the police.”

  During the conversation the Weasel and the old man had been walking up Oxford Street and had by this time arrived near Dr. Defoe’s surgery. The Weasel sat down on a bench.

  “Let us rest a bit,” he said. “I’m tired out. Let me tell you, my man, that your tale shows me that it’s an opportunity you want. Now, I have many opportunities and you should know that I am the most important cog in most of Joseph Kennan’s schemes. If I were to do business on my own account, I would be driving a luxury automobile in twelve months. The only thing against my success is my health, because I’m getting to be soft in the bones. Why, even now I have an opportunity at hand that is simply too good to be true. I was paid half the money down, but I am in need of a smart fellow to pull it through.”

  “What is it about?” asked Chuff.

  The Weasel shook his head.

  “You’re too old,” he answered. “At your age you’re too apt to be frightened by the risk and would shrink back at the critical time. Besides, I have a conscience.”

  “Well, so have I,” cried Chuff. “It’s exactly like your own, my good man. It can be stretched for hundreds of miles and folded up into a wallet.”

  “Well, we may be able to help each other,” said the Weasel. He took a ragged handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead.

  “Listen to me, my man. I’ll put what we in law call a hypothetical case to you. You hate that fellow, who beat you around the head, don’t you? Well, suppose you knew that he would walk under a high scaffold like that one opposite to us, what would you do?”

  Newton pointed at a scaffold built in front of a shop a few buildings away from Frank’s surgery. Several workmen were standing on it, working on the wall and the windows.

  Chuff scratched his head and said after a pause, “That boy might as well make his will, because I’d step up the scaffolding at night and just saw the planks half through and add some bricks on top and when he stepped under it, why, there would be a bit of a smash, eh?”

  “Not bad, not bad at all for a man of conscience,” said Newton with an approving smile.

  Chuff’s bosom swelled with pride.

  “Besides,” he continued, “I would play my part so well that not a soul would suspect me having done the trick.”

  “The more I hear you speak, Chuff,” said the Weasel, “the more I believe you’re the man I need and I’m sure that we will make heaps of money together.”

  “I’m sure of that too,” said the newspaper vendor, stroking the head of his dog.

  “You can use carpenters’ tools, I hope?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well,” continued the Weasel, “let me tell you then that I know a man with a lot of money and there is a fellow whom he hates. He’s a young chap, who ran off with the woman he loved.”

  “The bloke must have been out of his mind wild.”

  “Well, to tell the truth, he was not a bit pleased. Now it so happens that this young man spends ten hours a day at least in that surgery there. The abandoned man had the very same idea as yours, but he’s too fat around the waist and too soft to do the trick for himself. To cut the conversation short, he is willing to pay five thousand shilling to the persons, who are willing to carry out his idea. Just think, two thousand shilling for a few cuts of a saw!”

  The newspaper seller was violently agitated, but the Weasel pretended not to notice it.

  “First, my dear man,” he said, “I must explain to you where the fat gentleman’s plan is different from yours. If we don’t take care, some other poor devil might break his neck, but I have hit on a cunning plan to avoid all this.”

  “I ain’t saying I’m curious, but I would like to hear it.”

  The Weasel smiled broadly.

  “Listen! Do you see high up those planks? They are used by the stone masons. Well, if they were cut nearly through and bricks and cement bags were put on top, anyone walking on them or under them would be very likely to injure themselves.”

  Chuff nodded.

  “Now, suppose,” Newton went on, “that the enemy of our fat gentleman was in his surgery and all at once he hears a woman scream, “Help! Help me!” What would this young fellow do? Why, he would rush into the street, recognize the woman and run under the scaffold to come to her aid. As the woodwork and the supports have been cut away and a long rope has been attached to it and a willing man is ready to pull the rope just at the right moment, well, do you see now?”

  Chuff hesitated for a moment.

  “I ain’t saying I won’t,” he mumbled, “but, look here. Are you sure the fat chap will pay down sharp?”

  “Yes, but besides, he has given me half down.”

  The old man’s eyes glistened as Newton unbuttoned his tattered coat and removed a pin closing his inner pocket. Holding the pin between his teeth, he pulled out a few banknotes, each one for a hundred shilling. Chuff’s heart beat faster at the sight of the money.

  “Are some of those for me?” he asked. The Weasel held a few notes towards the man, who shuddered at the touch of the crisp paper and kissed the precious objects with pleasure. He then sprang up from his seat and regardless of the astonishment of the passers-by, began dancing wildly, accompanied by the delighted barking of his dog.

  All was settled. Chuff was to creep up the unfinished building by night and not to leave until he had completed his work. The Weasel, who busied himself with the smallest details, told him what sort of a saw to use and gave him the address of a man, who supplied the best instruments.

  “You must remember, my dear man,” he said, “not to leave behind you any traces of your work, which may cause suspicion. One grain of sawdust on the pavement might spoil the whole game. Take a dark lantern with you, grease your saw and finish your work.”

  Chuff listened to Newton in surprise. He had never thought that he was so practical or maybe even experienced in the trade. He promised that he would be careful and thinking that he had received all his instructions, he whistled to his dog and seemed ready to leave.

  “Listen,” Newton said, “you told Kennan that the soldier, I mean Irwin Kirwan said to you that he had been tortured and when he would catch me or the young woman, who relieved him of his secret, we should have a bad time of it.”

  “You weren’t my partner then,” answered the newspaper vendor with an impish laugh, “and I wanted to give you a bit of a fright. The truth is that your lady made the poor soldier so sick with love that he had better go to the hospital.”

  The Weasel was delighted to hear this and rising from his seat, said, “Where do you live?”

  “Nowhere in particular. Yesterday I slept in a doorway, but there isn’t room for all my furniture there, so I must shift.”

  “Would you like to sleep in my room for a day or two?” asked the Weasel, chuckling at the man’s joke. “I’ve moved from there, but the room is mine for another fortnight.”

  “Yes, where is it?”

  “You should like it well enough. It’s the old Hotel Krane on MacKenzie Road. I will write a line to the landlady.” He tore a page from his pocketbook and scrawled a few words on it, saying that his brother, Mr. Chuff, was to use his room.

  Chuff took the piece of paper and put it in his pocket, together with the banknotes. He crossed the street as Newton watched him and his dog for a moment. Just then Ralph Greenstreet left the surgery and waited to hail a cab. For a few seconds Ralph and Chuff stood side by side and a strange smile came over the Weasel’s face.

  “Both are children of London,” he mumbled, “and both are striking examples of our proud civilization. The dandy struts along the pavement, while the newspaper vendor walks in the gutter.”

  But he had no time to spend on philosophical ideas. His bus appeared around the corner. In half an hour it took him to Allen Acheson’s apartment in Smedley Street.

  The landlady, Mrs. Agar, was at her post as the Weasel entered the courtyard.

  “How is Mr. Acheson today?”

  “Better, sir, ever so much better. I made him a lovely bowl of soup yesterday and he drank up every drop of it. He looks much better this morning and Mr. Kennan sent in a dozen bottles of brandy today, which will, I’m sure, effect a perfect cure.”

  With a smile and a nod the Weasel made his way to the stairs, when Mrs. Agar spoke again.

  “Someone was here yesterday,” she said. “A Frenchman. He was asking about Mr. Acheson and his son.”

  “A Frenchman?”

  “Yes, a fat one with polite manners and expensive clothes. I wondered what a Frenchman, so handsomely turned out, was doing here. He was not the sailor sort, we usually get around here. He kept me for fully fifteen minutes talking and talking and he didn’t even give me a shilling for my trouble.”

  The description she gave him was of no one he would recognize. The Weasel was annoyed at this unexpected news.

  “Did you not notice anything else about the man?”

  “Yes, he had on gold glasses with the mountings as fine as a hair and a watch chain as thick and heavy as I’ve ever seen.”

  “That is all you have for me?”

  “Yes,” she answered. “Oh, no! There is one more thing. All the time he was talking to me he was nervous and always kept his eyes on the door.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Agar. Keep a sharp lookout,” said the Weasel, as he quickly went up the stairs.

  “Who on earth can this fellow be?” he asked of himself.

  He reviewed the chances, probabilities and risks and he knew none were neglected by Kennan in the planning phase, but apparently all in vain.

  “A thousand devils!” he growled angrily. “Are the police at my heels?”

  His nerves were shaken and he tried in vain to regain his customary calm. He had reached the door of Allen’s apartment. He rang. The door was at once opened. It was a young woman. He stepped back with a cry of surprise. Before him stood Carey, the daughter of Jeff Lett, the banker and Allen’s fiancée.

  The sharp eyes of the Weasel showed him that Carey’s visit had not been of long duration. She had taken off her hat and jacket and was holding in her hand a magazine.

  “Whom do you wish to see, sir?” she asked.