"Not from your friends, Senator," the officer disclaimed, hastily. "I'm only too glad to help out in any way I can."
To Bob Wharton the suspense of the next few days was trying in the extreme, particularly as Merkle kept declaring there was nothing to report, while Jimmy Knight betrayed an apprehension so pitiable as well-nigh to banish suspicion of his complicity in the plot. But before long there came to pass in various quarters certain events which gave Bob cause for thought. Strangely enough, these events, one and all, had some effect, either direct or indirect, upon the habitues of Tony the Barber's place. To begin with, Tony himself was summoned to headquarters and forced to spend a distressing half-hour with a harsh, ill-natured police official, as a result of which the pinochle-room at the rear of the barber-shop was closed and the door nailed up. With an unnatural show of indignation Tony warned its frequenters to stay away from his shop. Naturally he had recourse to Melcher, who promised to square the misunderstanding. But for once Melcher failed. When his efforts proved fruitless he was puzzled. So was Tony. The man upon whom Max relied for help was likewise at a loss, and finally hazarded the opinion that Tony must have made an enemy of somebody "higher up."
This chilling phenomenon was still a subject of discussion when Armistead was arrested for selling cocaine. Now Armistead's addiction to the drug was well known—in fact, he readily confessed to it—but, knowing only too well the risks involved in its sale, he had never even contemplated such a thing. He was outraged and incredulous, but a dope-shattered derelict swore out a complaint against him, and when Armistead's room was searched, strange to relate, the police discovered a considerable amount of cocaine concealed therein. Bail was fixed at an unusually high figure even for a felony, and Max Melcher wondered vaguely as he arranged to meet it.
Misfortunes multiplied rapidly. On the very next day Young Sullivan was caught picking pockets in the Times Square Subway station and once more Max was forced to journey jail-ward. Sullivan's story gave his chief still more occasion for thought, for this arrest seemed plainly "a frame," being absurd upon its face. The pugilist had huge, misshapen paws that could scarcely explore his own, much less another's pockets, and his stiffened fingers could not palm a coin in the dark, yet a stranger had accused him of deftly lifting a watch. It seemed significant that two plain-clothes men should have been at Sullivan's elbow at the moment. The prize-fighter had acted according to his nature, and a fine row had resulted, in the midst of which there had dropped out of his clothes a gold watch which Sullivan violently protested he had never seen before. His imperious demand upon Max for help was resentfully couched, but Melcher dared not refuse to act as his bondsman.
Max was worried when he left the jail, and his perturbation increased when he discovered late that night that Armistead had disappeared, with the evident intention of jumping his bond. Convinced now that something must be badly out of joint, he lost no time in warning Lilas Lynn to go slow with her blackmailing enterprise. Indeed, he ordered her to drop it entirely until he had time to discover where the trouble lay.
Upon the girl this command had an unexpected effect; for not only did it prove to her that Max had lost his pull at headquarters, but it also strengthened her determination to betray him in accordance with Jimmy Knight's suggestion. Why, indeed, should she share her gains with anybody? If Max had no right to any part of the loot what possible claim had Jim to share in it? Once Lilas's cupidity was aroused it banished even that meager ghost of honor that is supposed to prevail among thieves; and, disregarding Max's caution, she decided to take things entirely into her own hands, riding this wave of success to the finish. Accordingly she sent for Bob.
It did not take her long to see that Wharton had changed since their last interview, and accordingly she did not put herself to the trouble of acting—in fact, Bob allowed her no opportunity of doing so.
"Now don't give me that stall about Melcher," he said, in answer to her first inquiries "I'm on."
Miss Lynn's cheeks had lost the power of changing color, but her eyes were as expressive as ever, and now as she stared at her victim they showed a certain inflexibility of purpose.
"You must have been talking to Merkle," she said, slowly.