“That was the Chink, sure as God made little red apples!” the “Kid” snapped.
They crossed the street. Several automobiles were drawn up close to the curb, among them a big blue limousine from which the Chinaman had stepped a moment before they identified him. Monte approached a well-dressed gentleman, who had just come out of the building, and asked him what was going on inside.
“This is the fall exhibition of the Iconoclasts,” the stranger explained good-naturedly.
He seemed to be sizing up the two crooks.
“I think you boys would enjoy it,” he added mischievously. “The admission is only fifty cents.”
Monte and the “Kid” bought tickets, and presently they entered a big room with a high ceiling, upon whose walls were hung a number of gaudy paintings. The newcomers stared round at the fifty or more spectators who were making the rounds of the gallery.
“Hell!” growled the “Kid,” “this ain’t no place for an honest strongarm man—Let’s beat it and send for Doc!”
Monte gripped his arm.
“Look!” he said under his breath. “Over there near the corner!”
The “Kid” looked stealthily as directed, and perceived the tall man in the gray topcoat. He was standing with his back to them, examining a red and yellow daub that looked like an omelette liberally seasoned with paprika.