wered earnestly.
"We've uncovered the Nabob's stuff! Do you get me? Every last one of the
sparklers!"

Rhoda Gray's eyes went back to the deformed creature at Danglar's side,
as the man laughed out abruptly.

"Yes," grinned Matty Danglar, "and they weren't in the empty money-belt
that you beat it with like a scared cat after croaking Deemer!"

How queer and dim the light seemed to go suddenly--or was it a blur
before her own eyes? She said nothing. Her mind seemed to be groping its
way out of darkness toward some faint gleam of light showing in the
far distance. She heard Danglar order his brother savagely to hold his
tongue. That was curious, too, because she was grateful for the man's
gibe. Gypsy Nan, in her proper person, had murdered a man named Deemer
in an effort to secure--Danglar's voice came again:

"Well, to-night we'll get that stuff, all of it--it's worth a cool
half million; and to-night we'll get Mr. House-Detective Cloran for
keeps--bump him off. That cleans everything up. How does that strike
you, Bertha?"

Rhoda Gray's hands under her shawl locked tightly together. Her
premonition had not betrayed her. She was face to face to-night with the
beginning of the end.

"It sounds fine!" she said derisively.

Danglar's eyes narrowed for an instant; and then he laughed.

"You're a rare one, Bertha!" he ejaculated again. "You don't seem to put
much stock in your husband lately."

"Why should I?" she inquired imperturbably. "Things have been breaking
fine, haven't they?--only not for us!" She cleared her throat as though
it were an effort to talk. "I'm not going crazy with joy till I've been
shown."

Danglar leaned suddenly over the table.

"Well, come and look at the cards, then," he said impressively. "Pull
your chair up to the table, and I'll tell you."

Rhoda Gray tilted her chair, instead, nonchalantly back against the
wall--it was quite light enough where she was!

"I can hear you from here," she said coolly. "I'm not deaf, and I guess
Matty's suite is safe enough so that you won't have to whisper all the
time!"

The deformed creature at the table chortled again.

Danglar scowled.

"Damn you, Bertha!" he flung out savagely. "I could wring that neck of
yours sometimes, and--"

"I know you could, Pierre," she interposed sweetly. "That's what I like
about you--you're so considerate of me! But suppose you get down to
cases. What's the story about those sparklers? And what's the game
that