somehow I couldn't do it. I tried, but I couldn't."
Mr. Stacy threw back his head, and his raucous laughter smote the lazy summer afternoon.
"I can't help it," he gasped. "The funniest thing I ever—you—the best stone thief in America alone in charge of three million dollars' worth of the stuff!"
"Good heavens, man," whispered Wall. "Not so loud!" And well might he protest, for Mr. Stacy's indiscreet and mirthful tone carried far. It carried, for example, to Mr. Richard Minot, standing hidden behind the curtains of his little room overhead.
"Come inside, Martin," said Stacy. "Come inside and have a bracer. You sure must need it, after that."
"I do," replied Mr. Wall, in heartfelt tones. He rose and followed Tom Stacy.
Cheeks burning, eyes popping, Mr. Minot watched them disappear into the Manhattan Club.
Here was news indeed. Lord Harrowby's
