. Dey got a few suckers but de bunch was all in on the know."

"But how did the 'Gink' know beforehand that the raid was going to be
made?"

"Say," expostulated Murphy, "ask me some-pun easy, will ya? Da 'Gink'
knows everything before it happens, see? If he didn't he wouldn't be da
'Gink,' dat's all."

A thrill went through John. He was "in on the know," as Murphy had put
it. What a discovery he had made! What would Brennan say when he told
him? What would the mayor say? And what would Gibson say?

They were back before the place in which they had been arrested. Murphy
turned, guiding John by the arm with him.

"Now keep your trap shut and let me do da talkin', see?" he admonished
as they went through the swinging doors.

Inside things were exactly as they had been before the raid, except that
there were twice as many in the long room. John recognized the red-faced
man in the brown check suit and the greasy derby hat who had helped him
on to the truck as he stood at the bar, a glass of near-beer in front of
him and chatting with the bartender, who was pulling on his white coat
again.

Murphy led him to the back room and rapped on a door.

"Come in," a voice called.

Murphy opened the door and entered, beckoning to John with a jerk of the
head to follow him.

CHAPTER XII

The room was small and dark, the only light coming from an electric lamp
over an old-fashioned, battered roll-top desk that completely filled the
wall at one end. Between John and Murphy and the desk was a scarred oak
table behind which sat a thin-faced man, an unlighted cigar protruding
from a corner of his mouth.

"Shut the door," said the man, without removing the cigar.

John closed the door.

"Who's this with you, Murphy?" the man snapped out his words and eyed
John keenly.

"He's all right, Slim," Murphy replied.

"Sure?" asked "Slim," quizzically.

"I ain't gonna let anybody fool you or me, am I, Slim?"

"Not if you want to stay alive," returned "Slim." "Was he picked up in
the raid, too?"

"He was wit me all through it," said Murphy.

"All right, then, I'll take your word for it, Murphy," said the man
behind the desk. "But remember, if he's a stoolie, you're the bird
that's going to get it."

"Don't I know?" Murphy assured him.

"Where's your tag?" asked "Slim."

Murphy produced the receipt for his bail money and tossed it on the
table. "Slim" examined it and then, without looking up, asked:

"And where's