CHAPTER VII
In a wild rush of words Lawrence told what he had discovered. O’Brien listened closely and at the end of the account nodded his head.
“You have ’em pickled this time, me jool,” he said. “It is damnation enough if they so much as live in that place you’re mentionin’. I know the local cutthroats and pipemen, while every son of Ham that walks there has a razor ready for use, right in his closed fist. I’m that glad you came out with a whole skin. Now don’t talk; lave me think.”
He filled a pipe and slowly drawing on it, sat with his eyes fixed on a corner of the room, a look of abstraction on his usually jolly face.
At last he spoke.
“Here’s how I dope it. It’s plain Mr. Ridgeway has picked you on your recommendations to drive that dirigible. All right. Tomorrow you go to Mr. Ridgeway as his guest or long-lost nephew or what not. Anyhow, you stay right in his house as his guest. There’s that much less chance of losin’ you if they get on to who you are. And it’s a slick crowd we are buttin’ in on. When it comes time for you to start with your silly little papers and your shiny little jewelry wherever they belong, (and Mr. Ridgeway will have to tell that,) you can just start on, and O’Brien will take the job makin’ the other crowd miss their train, as you might say. What’s the time o’ night?”
“Twelve thirty,” said Lawrence.
“Pretty late,” replied O’Brien, “but let’s have a try.”
He picked up the telephone and almost immediately had Mr. Ridgeway on the wire. After a moment’s talk, he took his hat and told Lawrence to follow him. In a taxi, they arrived at Mr. Ridgeway’s house and found that gentleman reading in his room.
O’Brien outlined his plan.