ument you want to hand me?"

"I don't care to talk here," observed Storri, glancing suspiciously at
the walls within touch of his hand. "Let us go outside."

"That's it," observed London Bill; "now if we was to go plantin'
ourselves in Union Square, or any little open-air place like that, it's
ten to one some Bull from the Central Office would come along an' spot
us. They're onto my mug; got it in the gallery in fact."

"We can't talk here," said Storri decidedly.

"Wait a minute," suggested London Bill, who it was clear had grown
curious as to Storri's errand, "I think I can fix the thing." He stepped
into the bar and returned with a key. "Come on," said he; "there's an
empty hall upstairs that ought to do us. It's as big as a rink."

London Bill led the way up the foul, creaking stairs, and opened a door
on the top floor. It was a room the bigness of the building, and had
been used for dancing. Drawing a couple of wooden chairs to a front
window, Storri's guide motioned him to a seat.

"Here we be," he said; "now what's it all about?"

Storri, nothing backward when assured that no one was playing
eavesdropper, began to talk, carefully avoiding his usual jerky Russian
mannerisms. You have been told of Storri's graphic clearness of
statement, once he had fully perfected the outlines of some enterprise.
In fifteen minutes, but only in vaguest way, he laid his proposal before
London Bill; the proposal was so framed that the 'peter-man understood
no more than that a bank of unusual richness was to be broken into, and
his aid was sought.

"Your share alone," whispered Storri, "will foot up for a million."

London Bill's little black eyes twinkled like those of a rat. He didn't
make reply at once, but looked out of the grimy, cobwebby pane at the
sky. The face of London Bill was rough, but not unpleasant, and, though
he had killed his man and was a desperate individual if cornered, the
only trait expressed was a patient capacity for enterprises that might
require days or even weeks in their carrying out.

"Don't you think now you're a bit of a come-on?" observed London Bill,
swinging around to Storri from his survey of the distant heavens.

"Why?" asked Storri, as cool as the other.

"This is why," returned London Bill. "Here you butt in, a dead stranger,
and make a proposition. Suppose I was to rap?"

"I'd declare that you lied," replied Storri cheerfully, "and no one with
sense would believe you. They would s