you wouldn't have it. It
was a lucky day for me when you borrowed it. And now, let's drop the
subject. I'm off to the West on a morning train. I know a place out
there where I can negotiate the Norcross sparks. Drink up, Barney,
and forget your troubles. We'll have a jolly time while the police
are knocking their heads together over the case. I've got one of my
Sahara thirsts on to-night. But I'm in the hands--the unofficial
hands--of my old friend Barney, and I won't even dream of a cop."

And then, as Kernan's ready finger kept the button and the waiter
working, his weak point--a tremendous vanity and arrogant egotism,
began to show itself. He recounted story after story of his
successful plunderings, ingenious plots and infamous transgressions
until Woods, with all his familiarity with evil-doers, felt growing
within him a cold abhorrence toward the utterly vicious man who had
once been his benefactor.

"I'm disposed of, of course," said Woods, at length. "But I advise
you to keep under cover for a spell. The newspapers may take up this
Norcross affair. There has been an epidemic of burglaries and
manslaughter in town this summer."

The word sent Kernan into a high glow of sullen and vindictive rage.

"To h----l with the newspapers," he growled. "What do they spell but
brag and blow and boodle in box-car letters? Suppose they do take up
a case--what does it amount to? The police are easy enough to fool;
but what do the newspapers do? They send a lot of pin-head reporters
around to the scene; and they make for the nearest saloon and have
beer while they take photos of the bartender's oldest daughter in
evening dress, to print as the fiancee of the young man in the tenth
story, who thought he heard a noise below on the night of the murder.
That's about as near as the newspapers ever come to running down Mr.
Burglar."

"Well, I don't know," said Woods, reflecting. "Some of the papers
have done good work in that line. There's the _Morning Mars_, for
instance. It warmed up two or three trails, and got the man after the
police had let 'em get cold."

"I'll show you," said Kernan, rising, and expanding his chest. "I'll
show you what I think of newspapers in general, and your _Morning
Mars_ in particular."

Three feet from their table was the telephone booth. Kernan went
inside and sat at the instrument, leaving the door open. He found a
number in the book, took down the receiver and made his demand upon
Central.