e of rough, untrimmed stone and cement, and which occupied almost
the entire end of the room, was already practically demolished, and
the wreckage was littered everywhere; part of the furniture was piled
unceremoniously into one corner out of the way; and at the fireplace
itself, working with sledge and bar, were two men. One was Connie Myers.
An ironical glint crept into Jimmie Dale's eyes. The false beard and
mustache the man wore would deceive no one who knew Connie Myers! And
that he should be wearing them now, as he knelt holding the bar while
the other struck at it, seemed both uncalled for and absurd. The other
man, heavily built, roughly dressed, had his back turned, and Jimmie
Dale could not see his face.

The puzzled frown on Jimmie Dale's forehead deepened. Somewhere in the
masonry of the fireplace, of course, was where old Luther Doyle had
hidden his money. That was quite plain enough; and that Connie Myers, in
some way or other, had made sure of that fact was equally obvious. But
how did old Luther Doyle get his money IN there from time to time, as he
received the interest and dividends whose accumulation, according to the
Tocsin, comprised his hoard! And how did he get it OUT again?

"All right, that'll do!" grunted Connie Myers suddenly. "We can pry this
one out now. Lend a hand on the bar!"

The other dropped his sledge, turned sideways as he stooped to help
Connie Myers, his face came into view--and, with an involuntary start,
Jimmie Dale crouched farther back against the wall, as he stared at the
other. It was Hagan! Mrs. Hagan's husband! Mike Hagan!

"My God!" whispered Jimmie Dale, under his breath.

So that was it! That the murder had been committed in the tenement was
not so strange now! A surge of anger swept Jimmie Dale--and was engulfed
in a wave of pity. Somehow, the thin, tired face of Mrs. Hagan had risen
before him, and she seemed to be pleading with him to go away, to leave
the house, to forget that he had ever been there, to forget what he
had seen, what he was seeing now. His hands clenched fiercely. How
realistically, how importunately, how pitifully she took form before
him! She was on her knees, clasping his knees, imploring him, terrified.

From Jimmie Dale's pocket came the black silk mask. Slowly, almost
hesitantly, he fitted it over his face--Mike Hagan knew Larry the Bat.
Why should he have pity for Mike Hagan? Had he any for Connie Myers?
What right had he to let pity sway h