The cigarette smoldered and did not go out. Soon a tiny flame leaped up, igniting the dirty old carpet which stretched the length of the hall. The fire spread rapidly, fed by wood that was very dry and brittle.
Unaware that they had started a disastrous blaze, the four men fled to Hanley Cron's studio apartment to make plans for a hasty departure.
"The game's up," Cron said to his companions. "It Christopher Nichols ever finds his daughter, he'll put the heat on us right. We can't get out of this town soon enough."
"Divide up the money, and we'll skip," Hoges answered gruffly.
Cron tore the cover from a day bed couch, and with a sharp knife slit open the mattress. He removed a neat, thick roll of bills.
"How much?" Max demanded.
"Forty thousand. Not a bad haul for a little over a week's work." Cron laughed triumphantly. "We sold that picture seven times, and not one of the suckers dared to squawk. If that Nichols girl hadn't horned in, the racket would have been good for another twenty thousand at least."
"We ought to have kept the picture," Hoges complained. "Then we could start up in another city and try the same thing over again."
Cron shook his head. "Too dangerous. If that Nichols girl should escape——"
"That's where we made a big mistake," Lynch cut in. "We shouldn't have left anything to chance."