“If he isn’t dippy, a pronounced victim of criminal mania, I’m no judge of human faces,” he said to himself. “Human be hanged! He has the look of a devil, and all the makings of one, if I’m not mistaken.”
“We’ll balk him, thwart him, turn this trick on him, Shannon, in spite of all he can do,” Graff snapped viciously after a moment. “Then, if he dares to remain in Madison—well, God help him! His fate will be on his own head. I have told him. I have warned him.”
“He means the chief,” thought Patsy. “This was the rascal who sent him the letter, and he refers to the theft of Mrs. Thurlow’s pearls. They’ve been planning it, and that’s the job Toby Monk is booked for to-night. If I can but learn the details of their scheme, it will be soft walking for the chief to foil their game and collar the entire gang. I’m on the way, all right.”
Patsy felt reasonably sure of it, indeed, and he was missing nothing that passed between the two conspirators. Shannon appeared oblivious to Graff’s display of feeling, though he smiled a bit grimly and said:
“You can turn the dick down, all right, if need be, and none would get wise. All I hope is that he won’t be able to queer this job. There would be something coming to us from it, a deal more than usual.”
“It’s as sure as if you already had it in your pocket, Shannon, if my instructions are carefully followed.”
“They will be,” Shannon nodded. “What does Tim Hurst think about it? Where does he fit in?”
“He’s to work the trick with me.”
“Any one else?”
“Only Dorson.”