“How do you know?” Rhoda Gray demanded.
“Because,” said Danglar, and lighted another cigarette, “he died yesterday afternoon up in Sing Sing.”
She could afford to show her frank bewilderment. Her brows knitted into furrows, as she stared at Danglar.
“You—you mean he confessed?” she said.
“The Angel? Never!” Danglar laughed grimly, and shook his head. “Nothing like that! It was a question of playing one 'fence' against another. You know that Witzer, who's handled all our jewelry for us, has been on the look-out for any stones that might have come from that collection. Well, this afternoon he passed the word to me that he'd been offered the finest unset emerald he'd ever seen, and that it had come to him through old Jake Luertz's runner, a very innocent-faced young man who is known to the trade as the Crab.”
Danglar paused—and laughed again. Unconsciously Rhoda Gray drew her shawl a little closer about her shoulders. It seemed to bring a chill into the room, that laugh. Once before, on another night, Danglar had laughed, and, with his parted lips, she had likened him to a beast showing its fangs. He looked it now more than ever. For all his ease of voice and manner, he was in deadly earnest; and if there was merriment in his laugh, it but seemed to enhance the menace and the promise of unholy purpose that lurked in the cold glitter of his small, black eyes.
“It didn't take long to get hold of the Crab”—Danglar was rubbing his hands together softly—“and the emerald with him. We got him where we could put the screws on without arousing the neighborhood.”
“Another murder, I suppose!” Rhoda Gray flung out the words crossly.
“Oh, no,” said Danglar pleasantly. “He squealed before it came to that. He's none the worse for wear, and he'll be turned loose in another hour or so, as soon as we're through at old Jake Luertz's. He's no more good to us. He came across all right—after he was properly frightened. He's been with old Jake as a sort of familiar for the last six years, and—”
“He'd have sold his soul out, he was so scared!” The withered hand on the table twitched; the deformed creature's face was twisted into a grimace; and the man was chuckling with unhallowed mirth, as though unable to contain himself at, presumably, the recollection of a scene which he had witnessed himself. “He was down on his knees and clawing out with his hands for mercy, and he squealed like a rat. 'It's the sixth panel in the bedroom upstairs,' he says; 'it's all there. But for God's sake don't tell Jake I told. It's the sixth panel. Press the knot in the sixth panel that—'” He stopped abruptly.