“Damn you,” he exploded, “you’ve got me all right, but I’ll send that girl and her sister up the river. You’re stuck on her and I’ll get even that way.”
Even in his fury he remarked that this threat did not disturb the man in the least. He saw the girl blanch and hide her face, but this cursed meddling R. J., as he called himself, only smiled.
“I think not,” Denby returned. “You forget that Mr. Harrington is vice-president of the New York Burglar Insurance Company and a friend of the late Mr. Vernon Cartwright. I hardly think he will allow a little matter like that to come into public notice. In fact, I’ve seen him about it already.”
“Oh, get me out of this,” Taylor cried in disgust.
“Just a minute,” Denby commanded. “I’ll trouble you for that thirty thousand dollars.”
“You think of everything, don’t you?” Taylor snarled, handing it back. “Is that a fake, too?”
“Oh, no,” he was told, “I borrowed that from Monty, who’s been a great help to me in this little scheme as an amateur partner.”
He put the bills in his pocket and took out the cigar Taylor had given him.
“Here’s your cigar,” he said.
Taylor snatched it from him, and biting off the end, stuck it in his mouth. He assumed a brazen air of bravado. “Well,” he cried bragging, “it took the biggest man in the secret service to land me, Mr. R. J., but I’ve got some mighty good pals, in some mighty good places, and they’ll come across for me, and don’t you forget it. After all, you’re not the jury, and all the smart lawyers aren’t dead yet.”