Monte was staring down at the dead man.
"You say you heard the windows back here rattling earlier in the evening?" he demanded.
"Sure. Why wouldn't they? The whole house was rattling!"
Monte nodded. He had his own ideas on this subject, but he didn't intend to spread them before his already demoralized followers'
"Well, the thing we've got to decide is what we're going to do with him," he commented. "We've got to handle the whole business ourselves, and say nothing. We can't afford to have the dicks asking questions around here just now!"
Tacitly, Monte's three companions agreed, but there was in their pale faces a question which none of them had the courage to voice. Monte continued, apparently unconscious of their emotions.
"Billy," he said, "you get the spade and dig a grave over close to the fence. After we get him planted, we'll move that pile of old bean poles over the place. It's kind of tough, but Louie is dead—and we got to look out for ourselves!"
The Strangler went silently out into the dark. They heard him rummaging for a spade, and presently the clink of the latter implement came industriously to them. The grave was finished by the time the first gray light of dawn began to filter down around the cottage, and presently the body of the dead crook, wrapped in a blanket, was lowered into it. Then the dirt was shoveled back till the cavity would hold no more, and the superfluous earth was scattered over the surface of the garden. The shifting of a pile of bean poles finished the ceremony.
"I'll trade rooms with you, Kid," Monte said to the saturnine strong-arm man—who for once looked rather cowed. "I never was afraid of a dead man—just so that he was really dead. I guess you're kind of soured on that part of the house!"
"Soured is right," mumbled the "Kid." "Say, I wouldn't sleep in there if you was to give me all the sparklers in New York! Just let me get my stuff out!"
As he went back toward the room from which the body had recently been removed, the "Kid" saw the mocking glance of the Strangler fastened upon him. Billy was enjoying his discomfiture. He went into the room and turned on the light—the burned-out bulb had been replaced, so that now he was able to see into all the corners. He began to gather up his property, staring nervously about him the while.
Cautiously, he approached the closet, where he had stored his bathrobe and an extra suit, a couple of pairs of shoes and a pearl gray hat. He opened the door wide and stepped back. Nothing inside. Hastily he carted the clothing out. Then he crossed over to the bureau and opened the left-hand upper drawer, in which he had placed his jewelry—some rings and tie pins.
The "Kid" drew the drawer fully open and stood looking down into it. Then a startled exclamation escaped him, and he bent nearer, staring wide-eyed.
All of his possessions were there; but in addition he saw, close to the back of the drawer, a morocco covered box of peculiar design. The "Kid" had seen that box once before!
With trembling fingers he undid the clasp and opened the lid. He could feel his heart pounding in the top of his head, and his throat seemed to contract, so that he fought for breath. The Resurrection Pendant! A single glance convinced him of that. But how had it come into this drawer?
The "Kid's" mind deviated from the line of this natural inquiry. He could forget that for the moment—the fact was that here it was. But there was no reason why he should share this discovery with the other Wolves. This supreme good fortune had come to him, not to them! He quickly shut the lid of the case and slid the box into an inside pocket.
He removed his property to Monte's room, hiding the jewel case under the mattress. His blood had turned to liquid fire. He had that for which they had all been searching—and it was his alone! . . .
Monte went on guard that evening, taking "Doc" with him: not that Monte was afraid, but he realized that the battle had now entered its final and decisive phase. And it was real war, Monte Jerome had no doubt that Martin had, in some mysterious way, been done to death in the house of Ah Wing.
"You boys better get to bed early," he said. "Billy, you take the clock and set it for half past one. You wake the Kid as soon as you get up—we'll stand double guard from now on!"
The "Kid" hardly heard Monte speaking. He wanted to examine the jewels again, wanted to figure out just how he was going to make the break which would free him from his comrades.
For a time, after the other two had departed, he sat around smoking and cleaning out the barrel of his pistol, which the fogs of this marshy neighborhood were corroding. He cleaned barrel and chamber and oiled the action; then replaced the clip of cartridges and slipped the gun into a side pocket.
"Well," he mumbled, half aloud, "I guess I'll be getting to bed. An' I hope to God there won't be no voices around here tonight!"
The Strangler grunted, and the "Kid" slouched off up the stairs and into the room that had been Monte's. He closed the door carefully, crossed over to the light, and then stood listening.
The night wind was stirring around the house, whistling and moaning down the chimney; but the "Kid" had an antidote for fear tonight: he went over to his bed and fumbled for the jewels. The touch of the smooth leather-covered box started his heart to pounding.
He laid the box on the bed and opened it. The light was reflected into his eyes from a thousand sharp facets, crimson and blue and white—but perhaps the charm was wearing off: the stones did not look as wonderful to him tonight as they had in that momentary view he had caught during the afternoon.
"And that's the bunch of sparklers men go dippy about!" the "Kid" mumbled. "Hell, I wouldn't give two bits for the whole bunch, if I couldn't sell 'em! There's too many of 'em, and they don't shine so terrible much! I saw a big buck nigger on State Street once with a solitaire on that would have made them look phoney—and it was glass! Oh, well, I should worry. I ain't going to wear 'em—I'm going to sell 'em! I'll have to play safe—"
At the ghost of a sound from behind, the "Kid" whirled. He had left the door closed, but now it was open—and the Strangler stood inside the room, grinning.
"So, that was the game!" he cried. "You're a slick one, Kid, but you ain't slick enough. I been watching you all evening. You ain't yourself, old timer. You're getting nervous, But I don't wonder! You grabbed the sparklers, but how you done it I don't know. And you was going to hold 'em out, was you? Well, well—"
The "Kid's" lips jerked up into a wolfish smile, but he forced himself to go slow. He needed to think this thing out. He knew the Wolves well enough to be sure they would hold this affair against him, and sooner or later would try to play even. No use to try to explain—they wouldn't understand.
The Strangler was watching him through chilly eyes. Casually, the Kid's hand stole toward his side pocket. Instantly the man standing before him
