"You'd better count it," said Peter, as the envelope changed hands.
"It's not 'phoney'——?" asked Hawk's voice suspiciously.
"Phoney?"
"Fake money——?"
"No. I got it in New York myself yesterday."
"Oh——." There was a silence in which the shade stood uncertainly fingering the package, peering into the bushes around him and listening intently. And then, abruptly,
"I want to see the color of it. Switch on your light."
Peter obeyed. "You'd better," he said.
In the glow of lamp Hawk Kennedy bent forward, his face hidden by his cap brim, fingering the bills, and Peter saw for the first time that his left hand held an automatic which covered Peter now, as it had covered him from the first moment of the interview.
"Five hundreds—eh," growled Kennedy. "They're real enough, all right. One—two—three—four——"