ous roustabouts and beach-combers and strike-breakers. These worthies were apparently being drafted for some dubious expedition into Latin-American politics. What that expedition was did not greatly interest the man who had so recently sworn allegiance to the cause. What held his attention was the fact that this movement was being financed by spurious Lambert money, that he himself carried two of those counterfeit yellowbacks in his pocket, and that the murderer of Morello had in some way associated himself with the brick-skinned man in front of him.
Kestner still leaned sleepily over the desk-top. He was demanding of himself what deal Lambert in his desperation could have made with this adventurer from the Tropics.
"Gi' me a dollar a day extra," he languidly suggested, "and I'll do your printin' for you."
"You're a day too late," announced the other. "And you said you wanted to sleep off that head."
"I sure do. I never got a wink las—"
He stopped speaking, for the telephone bell beside him shrilled out its sudden summons. The man in the Stetson hat very promptly lifted the transmitter away from the desk-top and took down the receiver.
"Yes," he answered over the wire. "Sure.… This is Burke.… Sure.… An Italian named Carlesi … ever since morning.… Yes.… Carlesi.… Search me.… All right.… Any old time.… Sure.… Sure!"
Kestner, still sitting at the desk, rubbed a heavy forehead.
