A sudden fury, an anger hot and passionate seized upon Jimmie Dale; and there came an impulse almost overpowering to play another role, a deadlier, grimmer role than that of spectator! A toad, he had called the man. He was wrong—the man was a devil in human guise. He crushed back the impulse, a cold smile on his lips. He could afford to wait! It was not time yet. There was still the game to play out. He would have an opportunity to give full sway to impulse before the night was out, before the Tocsin should have set the Secret Service men upon the other’s trail—before midnight came.
Hunchback Joe was speaking now.
“Go on, Hoppy; get busy!” he ordered sharply, jerking his hand toward a trunk that stood at the foot of the cheap iron bedstead. “Get that opened. Hurry up! And see that you don’t leave any scratches on it, or—you understand!” He leaned forward, leering with sudden savagery at his companion.
Hoppy Meggs moved forward, dropped on his knees in front of the trunk, examined the lock for an instant—and grunted in contempt.
“Aw, it’s a cinch! Say, I could do it wid a hairpin!” he grinned—and a moment later threw back the lid.
Hunchback Joe drew a short, ugly blackjack, a packet of papers, and a large roll of bills from his pocket, and tossed the articles into the trunk.
“Lock it again!” he instructed tersely.
Hoppy Meggs hesitated—he was staring into the trunk.
“Say, youse don’t mean dat—do youse?” he demanded heavily. “Not dem papers dat—”
Hunchback Joe’s smile was not pleasant.