“Yes,” said the Butcher.
“Thank you!” smiled the Hawk. “Now——!”
He gagged the Butcher with the handkerchief, tied it securely into place, stood up, picked up the little black bag, switched off the electric reading lamp, moved to the window, and drew aside the shade. “We'll let that account stand open for a little while longer, Butcher,” he said softly. “Just a little while longer—good-night!”
He swung out of the window, dropped to the ground, ran across the lawn, and gained the road. His mask and automatic were back in his pockets. His fingers felt and patted the little black bag under his coat.
“Always play your luck,” whispered the Hawk confidentially to himself. “It seems to me I saw a little loose change in Doctor Meunier's pocket-book, and I don't think he's opened the duplicate bag yet and stirred up a fuss. It isn't much compared with a hundred thousand, or even fifty, to quote the Butcher, but 'every little bit added to what you've got——'” He fell to whistling the tune pleasantly under his breath, as he hurried along the road.
A minute later he had regained the taxicab.
“Drop me a block this side of the Corona—and give her all she's got!” he directed crisply.
“D'ye get him?” demanded the chauffeur eagerly.
“My friend,” replied the Hawk gently, as he stepped into the taxi, “if you'll think it over, you'll come to the conclusion that you really don't want to know. Take it from me that the less you're wise about to-night the wiser you will be to-morrow. Now, cut her loose!”
It had taken a good thirty minutes on the trip up; it took less than half of that, by a more direct route, for the return journey. At the corner, a block from the hotel, the Hawk crumpled two generous bank-notes into the chauffeur's hand, and bade the man good-night. He traversed the block, entered the hotel lobby, and, ignoring the elevators, leisurely and nonchalantly ascended the staircase to the first floor. From the landing he noted the room numbers opposite to him, and with these as a guide passed on along the corridor to where it turned at right angles at the corner of the building, and halted before room No. 106. A light showing above the transom indicated that the Frenchman was within. He had passed one or two people. No one had paid any attention to him. Why should they! He glanced up and down. The corridor, for the moment, was empty. He tried the door gently—it was locked. His right hand, in his side pocket, closed over his automatic. He pressed close to the door, knocked gently with his left hand—and with his left hand reached quickly into his pocket for his mask.