Fischer assented. The negro lifted the flap of the counter and opened a trapdoor, leading apparently into a cellar beneath.
"Step right down," he muttered. "Don't let the boys catch on. Get out of that, Tim," he added thickly to the dwarflike figure, whose slender fingers were suddenly nearing Fischer's neck.
The creature seemed to melt away. Fischer dived and descended a dozen steps or so into another bare looking apartment, the door of which was half open. There were three men seated at the solitary deal table, which was almost the only article of furniture to be seen. One, sombrely dressed in legal black, with a pale face and fiercely inquiring eyes, half rose to his feet as the newcomer entered. Another's hand went to his hip pocket. The man who was sitting between the two, however—a great red-headed Irishman—rose to his feet and pushed them back to their places.
"There's no cause for alarm, now, boys," he declared. "This is a friend of mine. I won't make you acquainted, because we're all better friends strangers down in these parts. Hop it off, you two. Sit down here, Mr. Stranger."
The two men stole away. The Irishman poured out a glassful of neat whisky and passed it to his visitor.
"Clients of mine," he explained. "Tim Crooks is in politics. Got your message, boss. What's the figure?"
"Two thousand!"
The Irishman whistled and looked thoughtfully down at the table.
"Isn't it enough?" Fischer asked.
"Enough?" was the hoarse reply. "Why, there isn't one of my toughs that wouldn't go rat-hunting for a quarter of that. If it's any one in these parts, twelve hours is all I want."