from New York and leaving behind him those three millions in bank-notes, still sealed in their oil-tins so artfully weighted with sand and cork-dust. And those oil-tins could not be opened and moved without Kestner's knowledge.
No, Lambert was there, breathing the same heavy odour of baled Morocco leather and spices and tropical fruits shot through with the homelier ammoniacal smell from the planking where countless draught-horses had stood. He was there on the lonely fringe of the great city from which he had fled; and he was there, waiting, watching, knowing that the time for finalities could not long be delayed.
But the wait seemed an endless one.
Kestner found relief in studiously rehearsing in his own mind each step that had led up to the present situation. He recalled Lambert's flight from the room in the shooting-gallery building, the talk with Burke the gun-runner, the latter's promise to get him and his three million in counterfeit aboard the Laminian and in three days off for South America.
He remembered Burke's suggestion as to Whitey McKensic, the water-front junkie and river-pirate ready for anything from "milking" coffee-bags in transit on their lighters to stealing coal from the Canarsie barges. This same Whitey was to pick up two or three of his wharf-rat friends. He was given money to hire a boat and also to purchase an inch auger of the best tempered steel. Then when the tide was right Whitey was to slip in under the Saltus Pier, with his motor muffled and his lights quenched. Then he was to take bis auger and with that compara-
