The Palais-Metropole was high class and exclusive, and the Weasel for
once looked quite the gentleman, and, for all his sharp, ferret face,
not entirely out of keeping with his surroundings--else he would never
have got farther than the lobby. The other was a short, thickset,
heavy-jowled man, with a great shock of sandy hair, and small black eyes
that looked furtively out from overhanging, bushy eyebrows.
"Well," Hamvert was saying, "the details are your concern. What I
want is results. We won't waste time. You're to be back here by
daylight--only see that there's no come-back."
"Leave it to me!" returned the Weasel, with assurance. "How's dere
goin' ter be any come-back? Mittel keeps it in his safe, don't he? Well,
gentlemen's houses has been robbed before--an' dis job'll be a good one.
De geographfy stunt youse wants gets pinched wid de rest, dat's all. It
disappears--see? Who's ter know youse gets yer claws on it? It's just
lost in de shuffle."
"Right!" agreed Hamvert briskly--and from his inside pocket produced
a package of crisp new bills, yellow-backs, and evidently of large
denominations. "Half down and half on delivery--that's our deal."
"Dat's wot!" assented the Weasel curtly.
Hamvert began to count the bills.
Jimmie Dale's hand stole into his pocket, and came out with his
handkerchief and the thin metal insignia case.
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