"The dough will be okay," he said, and the Saint smiled again.
"They didn't know how lucky you were going to be when they gave you your nickname, Joe," he said.
For some time after he had gone, Luckner sat in the same position, with his hands on his spread knees, chewing his cigar and staring impassively in front of him. The man with the toothpick continued his endless foraging. The man who had guarded the door lighted a cigarette and gazed vacantly out of the window.
The situation was perfectly clear, and Luckner had enough cold-blooded detachment to review it with his eyes open. After a while he spoke.
"You better go, Luigi," he said. "You and Karlatta. Take a coupla typewriters, and don't waste any time."
Toscelli nodded phlegmatically and garaged his toothpick in his vest pocket.
"Do we take the dough?"
"You're damn right you take the dough. You heard what he said? You give him the dough an' he tells you where to find Marty. I'll write some checks and you can go to New York this afternoon and collect it. An' don't kid yourselves. If there are any tricks, that son of a bitch has thought of them all. You know how he took off Morrie Ualino an' Dutch Kuhlmann?"
"It's a lot of dough, Lucky," said Mr. Toscelli gloomily.
Joe Luckner's jaw hardened.