"Dat is right," put in the old man; "it don't go at all wid us, we is gittin' trowed on it, and dat is sure unless dis gent knows a good ting to push, and dat is what he is here fur, to name de good ting to push. Dat is right, dat 's what we 's got to have, and we 's got to have it now. We don't keer no hell-room fur de 'supe,' it's de Boss and Leary we wants."
Randolph Mason got up and stood with his back to the fire. The lines of his face grew deep and hard. Presently he thrust out his jaw, and began to walk backward and forward across the room.
"Barker," muttered the old man, looking up for the first time, "de guy has jimmy iron in him."
The blue-eyed man nodded and continued to watch Mason curiously. Suddenly, as he passed the old man at the table, Mason stopped short and put his finger down on the newspaper. The younger man leaped up noiselessly, and looking over Mason's shoulder read the head-lines under his finger. "Kidnapped," it ran. "The youngest son of Cornelius Rockham stolen from the millionaire's carriage. Large rewards offered. No clew."
"Do you know anything about this?" said Mason, shortly.
"Dat 's de hell," replied the old man, "we does n't."
Mason straightened up and swung round on his heel. "Sir," he said to the man Barker, "are you wanted in New York?"
"No," he replied, "I am just over; they don't know me."
"Good," said Mason, "it is as plain as a blue print. Come over here."
The two crossed to the far corner of the room. There Mason grasped the man by the shoulder and began to talk to him rapidly, but in a voice too low to be heard by the old man at the table. "Smoove guy, dis," muttered the old man. "He may be fly in de nut, but he takes no chances on de large audejence."