Staggering up against the balcony rail, he stood there blinking in stunned bewilderment.
"Vas I ashleep?" he whispered; "vas I treaming? I vonder oof I can pelief vat I hear, or——"
He broke off his words abruptly, turned and stepped to the wall. Here he paused just long enough to shift the dried frog from his coat to his trousers pocket, then, softly, climbed into the embrasure and peered through the broken pane of the window.
No, he had not been asleep, or dreaming.
He was peering into a room in which were two men, neither of whom was the creole gentleman.
One of the men was Bangs, and the other was—Lat Jurgens! Between them stood the iron chest.
[CHAPTER VIII.]
THE PLOTTERS.
"You're a good one, Proctor!" Jurgens was saying, leaning over the chest and rubbing his hands. "This is the biggest piece of luck that ever came my way. Did Whistler have anything to do with it?"