He lighted another cigarette.
"Pass over that letter," ordered Whistler.
Dashington, without a dissenting word, handed the letter to Whistler.
"I know as much about it as you do," said he. "If it's an invite to go out with a stocking full of sand, please count me in. Anything with money in it looks good to me."
The envelope bore the words, "For Motor Matt."
"He's King, easy enough," averred Jurgens, looking over Whistler's shoulder.
"That's a cinch," averred Whistler, opening the letter and removing the inclosed sheet.
Together the two men read the letter, managing to keep wary eyes on the youth as they did so.
"Dear Matt: I'm lying ill in bed, out on Prytania Street. Dick and Carl know the place. There's a bag of diamonds to be delivered to the daughter of the Man from Cape Town, over on St. Charles Avenue, and you're the only one I can trust to do the work. You will have to be careful about it, and I wish you would come here at midnight to-night and get the stones. I haven't told either Carl or Dick what I want you to do, and when you read this I think you had better keep it to yourself—even from them. I've a feeling in my bones that there's trouble ahead, and I want to get the responsibility of those diamonds off my shoulders as quickly as possible.
"Yours, Archibald Townsend."
Exultation flamed in the faces of Whistler and Jurgens.