CHAPTER IV

_The Judge States His Second Case_

One thing must certainly be said in favor of the judge at this stage. He took the surprising revelation very well.

A faint, bitter smile hovered around his lips for some time. It was just such a smile as had appeared on his features when he had learned for the first and only time in his career that his judgment had been upset by a higher court. This had occurred a long time previously, and the barristers who pleaded before him seemed, on the following morning, to adopt a trifle more confidence, a subtle, hardly distinguishable self-assurance. But the judge had had his revenge. The higher court had admitted at a later sitting that the law, in this particular instance, was anything but clear, and they had recommended that a new statute be drafted on the basis of the judge's interpretation.

Probably something came to his memory of that vindication as he now considered the waiter before him. It was the latter who first broke the silence.

"Courtesy compels me to put the usual question to your lordship. Is there anything you wish to say against my finding?"

The judge shook his head, but his eye was fixed on the two glasses beside the bludgeon.

"Presuming that your identity is as you admit, there is nothing very useful that I can say in objection. But the name you gave to me just now is not that in which you came here as waiter----"

"It is merely one of my aliases."

"One of them? Interesting enough. A man of your intelligence need not be reminded, in that case, that you are liable to prosecution----"

"Provided I allow the police to prosecute."

"It is altogether a remarkable situation."

"Brought about by remarkable circumstances."

"I do not follow."

"It would be cruel for me to tantalize your curiosity without limit. I do not intend to do so. But, on the other hand, the time has not arrived for me to satisfy it."

The judge murmured something that was scarcely audible. The waiter bent forward.

"No," he said, quietly, "I do not think that you will hear it all from the bench. The fact is that I came here as waiter so that we could discuss in private the subject of the penal code so far as it applies to the judgment of death. There is never any opportunity for a prisoner in the dock to engage an eminent judge in controversy. No judge would listen----"

"The time of the court could not be wasted," smiled the judge, now more than ever convinced that he had to deal with a lunatic and anxious to avoid a rupture.

"Therefore, for that very reason, I designed this meeting with your lordship. I hope it is proving quite as agreeable as your favorite chess game, though so far you have lost two men and gained none."

The judge made a motion of his hand to signify that the loss of the men did not give him any regret--a gesture that did not by any means indicate his true feelings.

"Chess is an old game," he remarked. "I believe one of the Chinese rulers used to play it with living men. When these men were lost, according to the rules of the game the ruler and his opponent made the ending completely novel by taking off the men's heads on the spot! One imagines there was not any great enthusiasm to become chessmen."

"That, of course, was murder," commented the waiter, sternly.

The judge, who had mentioned the ancient game with live men in a jocular vein, controlled the ripple of mirth that he was about to express at his own joke. He saw that the waiter did not agree with his humor, so he was silent.

"It is just on the same ground that I object, in one way, to modern judgment of death," went on the waiter with a show of anger. "These chessmen's lives depended not on their own deserts, nor on justice, but on the ability of the ruler and his opponent to play chess! On their vacillating decisions, in fact. Is it just that an issue of life or death should depend on that? Yet that is what happens today."

"I still hold," said the judge firmly, "that your estimate of capital punishment is both unpopular and unworkable----"

"You cannot deny that the final decision, notwithstanding the verdict of juries and judicial pronouncements, lies in the hands of whoever happens to be Home Secretary. The personal moods, resolution, firmness, or weakness of that official are the frail balance----"

"There is always a tribunal of the Court of Criminal Appeal----"

"Who judge, like you, on the legal code and administer it in the same way--death for the uncontrollable frenzy of a moment as for the considered poisoning of a long period. A gunman from Chicago and a betrayed girl in London have both been found guilty of murder and sentenced to execution though their respective measures of criminality were entirely different."

"Ah, the old idea of making the punishment fit the crime is just what capital punishment does," cried the judge. "I will give you an instance that will convince you. Will you please let me have the minute-book for a moment as I refresh my memory."

He assumed something of his heavy authority as he stretched out his hand and took the book which the waiter passed over to him.

The fact was that the judge was still smarting under the reprimand he had just received when he told the story of the living chessmen. He was so used to counsel and witnesses bursting into guffaws at his wit that he experienced a sense of irritation when his playfulness was without this gratifying result. Had the waiter only been in the witness box how the judge would have roasted him! Had he been in the dock----!

A KILLER BY NATURE

There was a look of cold disdain in his eyes as he raised his head and pushed the book a little to one side. Then, in his court voice, without emotion, yet with emphasis on the right words, he related the following case, adopting the waiter's method, perhaps unconsciously.

I had great satisfaction [came the lofty authoritative pronouncement], in donning the black cap and sending Abe Lammie to the scaffold. He was a natural criminal.

Never in all my years on the bench was I so revolted at a crime as at his. Hanging was his deserts. Death was his due. Extinction was his fate. I had no pity for him, nothing but loathing, anger, contempt. These emotions were shared by the jury, who did their duty as honest and just men. So thoroughly was I in agreement with their verdict--which I had plainly hinted to them was the only one they could possibly bring in--that I exempted them from service for five years. They did not leave the box, but found Lammie guilty without a second's hesitation.

My experience in legal matters--in the humble position I occupy and during my early days--leads me to believe that the best way to reduce crime to the irreducible minimum is to make the risks greater than the recompense. But this man was a living contradiction to the theory as he was a contrast to ordinary criminal methods and theories. Therefore he was a greater danger to society, which must be protected; society, whose mouthpiece I am, deserved to be rid of him. I, like the jury, did not falter in my duty or responsibilities.

Had there been no risk Abe Lammie would probably have passed by the temptation to rifle the safe of a certain West End store. Had he passed by that temptation the watchman would not have lost his life. It was Lammie's nature to burrow and to attack from unexpected quarters. He had entered the store and had struck down the watchman before the latter could protect himself. A mean, brutal blow, it was.

He had approached this job by the tortuous way that many times had baffled the police. Most criminals would have hidden in the store at closing time and would have attacked the safe when the watchman was in a distant part of the building. But this man, Abe Lammie, was called by his confederates by the name of The Mole. He was indeed such an animal. He attacked the watchman before he attacked the safe.

His record showed that in one thing only did he resemble his fellow criminals. He watched a job, as they call a burglary, before he set to work on it; but even in this he differed from his mates. What he watched for in any job was not the easiest way of escape, but the difficulties which he might turn to his advantage.

Lammie did not choose any of the hiding-places this store offered to burglars. He could have crept under a counter before closing-time. He might have hidden himself among hanging garments. He might have stepped into a cupboard. All these are places usually sought by burglars just on closing-time. But Lammie worked according to his own theories. He entered the premises through a manhole in the pavement at the back of the building.

He wore rubber-soled shoes. To make sure that the watchman would come his way he deliberately upset a glass stand of displayed goods. When the watchman did appear Lammie knew him. The man had been a jailbird. Lammie recognized him at once. He had seen him in prison, and Lammie recollected that this man had tried to speak to him once, but a warder had intervened. All this passed through The Mole's brain rapidly. As the watchman stooped to examine the smash The Mole struck him down.

He left the watchman lying there while he made his way to the safe. There were several hours at his command since the watchman was out of the way, and he worked carefully. The police gave him credit for being a good burglar. His burner went through the door of the safe quickly and the lock fell into his hands.

The safe contained many things for which he did not have any use. There were ledgers, cash books, account books, letter files. These Lammie did not touch until he had pulled on a pair of gloves. He took two books down to where the watchman lay huddled on the floor.

Lifting the dead man's right hand, he smeared the tips of the fingers with dust and pressed them on the binding. He had the destroyed lock of the safe in his pocket and he pressed the tips of the watchman's fingers against it also. Then he returned to the safe.

He placed the books so that it might be thought they had fallen when the safe door opened. He put the lock on the floor. Then he delved into the drawers containing the cash. It was made up in bundles of notes held together by elastic bands. As the store had a _bureau de change_, there were a number of foreign notes; but Lammie took only the British ones. Altogether he had loot in hard cash to the value of nearly a thousand pounds.

He emptied the silver into a canvas bag which he took from his pocket. Leaving the safe door open, he rose to his feet and carefully brushed the floor so that the dust would not tell tales. His footprints did not trouble him. Flat rubber leaves practically no mark, and as dozens of people had already passed that way during the day his footprints could not be distinguished.

With his booty stowed in his pockets and his tools in the leather pouch inside his waistcoat he went to the jewelry section. Here he closely inspected the cases with the aid of an electric torch. A case of gold watches attracted him. He smashed the glass and helped himself.

In all he took over two dozen watches. They were the best in the case--goods he could sell quickly and without trouble. He inserted them into small pouches in his belt specially adapted for articles of jewelry. He next selected several watches and other goods of lesser value and carried them to where the watchman's body lay. He put the articles into the dead man's pockets and--it may have cost him a heartbeat--he also put a five-pound note in beside them.

He searched the dead body for the keys necessary for what he had still to do. Having secured the keys, he went to the door at the back of the premises by which the staff entered. On the back of the door was a burglar alarm which Lammie disconnected. He opened the door, peering out as cautiously as the animal after which he was named. The street was deserted. He shut the door and ran back to the watchman.

Hoisting the body on his shoulders, he returned to the door. Before he opened it this time he put the keys back into the watchman's pocket. He peered out again. All was quiet. He placed the body on the sidewalk near the gutter. Then he walked away. His burglary and murder were complete.

He went straight home after having a cup of coffee at a dingy stall in a mean street. He and his wife occupied a small flat on the ground floor of a tall, shabby house in a shabby suburb. The flat consisted of two rooms, one facing the front, the other facing the back. Lammie occupied the back room, his wife the front. There was a reason for this, as there was a reason for everything The Mole dictated. He had thus two means of entrance and exit. The windows of both rooms were auxiliaries to the doors.

He was awakened in the morning by his wife, who was standing by his bedside, her hand on his shoulder. In her hand was a newspaper, and her forefinger pointed to a heavily-typed column.

"Was this you, Abe?"

"Is it about a watchman?"

"Yes."

"It was me."

His wife threw down the newspaper with a shudder. She was a big, angular woman, who seemed at ordinary times to be incapable of emotion; but in the presence of her husband she was always nervous. She obeyed him in everything to the letter, afraid of him, yet with a hesitating admiration for him. She was afraid on her own behalf, also, perhaps.

"One day, Abe, you'll make a mistake," she breathed.

"I can't see that day."

"The paper has a piece that says there's nearly a thousand quid in cash--lifted!"

"That's about right."

"And that the watchman must have let the--the--burglar inside. Some stuff has been found on the watchman. They say the police think he may have been in on the job and then there was a quarrel about the square-up. Is that right?"

"If that's what they say, let 'em say it."

She picked up the jimmy that lay among his tools as he had thrown them on the floor. A red smear stained one end.

"You wash that off," he commanded, "and gimme breakfast. I'm due somewhere by midday."

She took the satchel into the kitchenette obediently while he arose and pulled on his clothes. He ate his breakfast rapidly, not once glancing at his wife, who stood beside the table attending to him as a slave serves a master. When he finished eating he got up and took the tools from the kitchenette and put them into his coat pocket. His wife watched him all the time, following him about with a dumb interest that was doglike.

"Abe, I need money."

He whipped out a bundle of notes and handed over one.

"That's a fiver. Get it changed this morning. And look here, if anybody asks where you got it, say Braid, the 'fence,' gave it you. Get that?"

"Braid?"

"That's it, Braid. That's what you've gotter say. If nobody asks, say nothin'. Listen here. I'm goin' to Braid now. I've got something to sell. I'll be back maybe a bit late. Wait up for me--and look out!"

"Abe, can't we go away somewhere--abroad, Canada, anywhere? I'm wearin' out fast with all this waitin', waitin', waitin'. Them cops----"

"Aw, we'll talk about that later."

"When?"

"After you've spent the fiver."

He went out by the back window and walked swiftly down the lane, diving into an underground station. The stolen watches were strung in his belt around his waist; the banknotes were in his pockets. He was going to get rid of his loot until the time when he could use it fearlessly. He knew--as had happened in the past--detectives would visit his apartment home. They often visited his apartments, and as often he gave account of his movements that satisfied them. He was quite sure of his ground on this occasion, as usual.

It is a fact, known to the police after much inquiry and investigation, that few receivers of stolen property make their arrangements with thieves within the circles of large cities. It is the same in New York, Chicago, Philadelphia as it is in London, Glasgow, Liverpool. When a burglar has considerable booty to sell he goes out of the radius of the city. It may be in the outer suburbs, or deep in the country; but it is not, as a rule, within the metropolitan area that he makes his rendezvous with the receiver.

The reason for these rendezvous some distance from the busy centers is quite simple. Most goods of value have to be disposed of immediately they are stolen; and, again, if the hue and cry is very hot, the criminal has always a good jumping-off spot. If all goes well he can deliver his loot, get his money, and be back in the center of the city, or among his social haunts, before the police have time to fix on a clue. These men always have alibis. Their companions commit perjury habitually. The disposing of jewelry has become an art.

Abe Lammie's destination was northwest of the city. All his instincts revolted at the idea of traveling by bus or ordinary overhead train. Mole-like he went underground. It was not that he feared being arrested if he showed himself in daylight; the police never moved so quickly as that. It was not that he regretted murder and wished to hide from his fellow men; he had used violence previously. The real objection he had to moving on the surface of the earth was the key to his whole existence. The trade--or profession--of burglar fitted him as closely as his skin. He was by nature a subterranean mammal, a shunner of the sun.

He had no parents of whom he could say, "Here is my mother, there my father." Of the former he had never heard or known a thing. Of the latter all he knew was that he was a prisoner somewhere, held by his own natural enemies, the police. His recollections did not go farther back than the time when, as a boy, he stood alone in the dock and was sentenced to a period of detention in a reformatory. He had not seen his father since that day. Not that it mattered much, for neither father nor son had any attachment for the other.

But even in these far-off days Abe Lammie escaped from the institution. How? By digging under the walls. He had remained underground ever since--a mole. In appearance he had a distinct resemblance to the animal. His arms were short, his fingers were stubby, like claws. His neck vertebræ were solidified. His chest was wide and powerful, his legs long and muscular. He walked as if he were swimming through earth. He made night his day and day his night. He hated summer and liked winter. He was a bundle of adaptations.

Starting with this resemblance between him and the creature after which he was nicknamed, the likeness ascended in rapid stages. Physically the similarity was positive. Socially it was comparative. Mentally it was superlative.

He chose his place of residence as carefully as any mole ever built his home. The path from the front gate to his door was the first "run," over which he, or his wife, could see the advance of strangers. The back lane, a dozen yards from his window, was his "bolt-run." The two rooms were his "fortress." His wife was his sentinel, his lookout, ready to give the alarm from the front room. Under the floor boards, behind the lathing of the walls, among the bricks at the back of the fireplace, in holes behind the skirting boards, in every unlikely place he had often stored his loot; but only temporarily, for the police had searched his fortress more than once. Their failure to find evidence on which to arrest him was due to the cunning Lammie exercised in storing the goods. He changed the places with the ingenuity of a molewarp. When he was engaged on a "job" he was the animal indeed--vigorous in moving, feeding, fighting, everything.

His mind was the mind of this creature of the hedgerow to a surprising degree. His brain was contraplex--two messages were constantly passing in opposite directions athwart it at the same time. The one current represented the action about to be performed, the other concerned the hiding of that already performed. To him an obvious thing was dangerous and a sign of foes. A straight line was abhorrent, because he had found out that the law was represented as the most direct route to retribution. All penal codes to him were entirely unfair; his mind was so crooked that he believed he had a right to steal what he could and get away with it. He did not admit the wrong of burglary. If jewelry was not well enough protected to keep him from taking it, the owners deserved to lose it. The law had no right to punish him; he classified punishment as another wrong against him. Thus the combative strain of the mole in him had developed until it had become contumacious. And this development only served to emphasize another trait relating to his nickname. Having observed how the police, his natural enemies, collected reliable witnesses, he adopted the idea, but used it as a defense instead of an attack. He involved those who feared him and screened himself behind them because they dared not give him away. Out of their helplessness he erected a bulwark for himself.

The subway on which he traveled roared its way across the foundations of the city and bore him upward toward the high ground of the northern section. Within a few miles of its terminus it burst out of the tunnel into the sunlight. Abe Lammie crouched in his corner, blinking his small eyes at the brightness he hated. On each side of the railway track new excavations were being made; brown clay was heaped in high embankments and lay across the green valleys extending toward the final station of the track. On the side of the hills some distance off he noticed two black holes that had been excavated. A steam navvy was heaving great loads of rock and rubble down a chute. The sight stirred a memory and a slumbering sympathy in him. He kept his eyes fixed on the excavating work until the train pulled up. He awakened with a jerk to the knowledge that he was at his destination.

He traversed the streets of the new suburb by stages, taking every back lane. In time he arrived at the house he sought. It was an old manor house, a relic of a past generation, with half an acre of thickly wooded ground surrounding it. He was ushered into a large room barely furnished, and found himself facing a small man who nervously twirled his hands as he greeted him.

"Well, Abe, I see by the papers----"

"I got the stuff," interrupted Abe. "There wasn't much of what you said. Two dozen tickers. But gold."

"Show them to me."

The Mole loosened his belt and swung it clear of his body. The receiver examined every watch.

"I'll take them. Twenty pounds the lot."

"They're worth ten times that."

"I said twenty pounds."

"All right. Hand the money over."

It was always the same. He did the work and the receivers beat him down in price. All he ever possessed in this world he took by cunning and by force.

"Now that you've skinned me," he said when he stowed the money away, "I've something I want you to look after for me. It's my own loot--not yours. I got the tickers for you. I took this for myself. I know the exact amount----"

"I couldn't store it for you, Mole."

"You know what it is?"

"It's the banknotes, isn't it?"

"You bet. You can hold them until it blows over."

"Sorry, Abe. That's your funeral. I can melt down gold or silver, I can't melt notes. I expect the cops know the numbers of some of them, if not all, by this time."

The receiver twirled his hands more than ever as he saw The Mole's brows drawn down. There was silence for a few moments. The receiver spoke again.

"Seen the papers, Abe?"

"What do they say?"

"The watchman was found on the pavement. You laid him there, I suppose?"

"Well?"

"One idea is that he let some one into the store. A pal, likely. They say the watchman was an ex-convict, a lifer, who did his term and was expected to make good. You did it smart, Abe, but I didn't want you to kill. That was where you slipped up, Abe. It's bad to kill. You've given others the knock-out, but not the good-by. Why did you do it?"

"He was in the way. What's it matter? I'd do it again. What about them notes? Are you scared to hold 'em?"

"There's the numbers, Abe, and numbers tell tales. You've been a good boy to me, I admit, and so I'd like to do what I can for you. You'll want to get away now that the watchman is on your conscience----"

"I haven't got a conscience," said The Mole. "What about the notes?"

"I'll buy them, Abe, if you'll let them go cheap. I'm only doing this to help you get away. What about a hundred pounds, cash down?"

"Huh! You get the tickers dirt cheap and then you offer me a hundred for nearly a thousand in notes!"

"Look at the risk, Abe! This is a killing case. You'll have to get away."

The Mole lit a cigarette and puffed slowly at it, his brows drawn down over his dull eyes. He knew quite well that the receiver was not concerned about his safety.

"It was you put me up to the job," he said, after a little. "_You're_ all right. _You_ don't get pinched. _You_ don't risk swinging. It's me that runs for it every time. I'm always on the hop. I'm always between you and the cops--keepin' my eye on both. And you have the nerve to offer me a mean hundred for all that pile!"

"It's all I can afford to risk, Abe. If you ain't satisfied, go and get them changed somewhere else and see what happens!"

He snarled the words and turned away as if to wash his hands of the proposition. The Mole laughed and the receiver turned quickly. There was something in The Mole's laugh he did not like.

"I gave one to my wife," said The Mole.

"That's your affair, Abe. You shouldn't trust women, even wives. They'll grab your wife, sure as a gun, and then it's all up with you. Isn't a hundred better than--the other thing?"

"It won't be the other thing, you mean Yid! I told my wife what to say, and she'll say it and stick to it. She was to say that you gave her the note."

"Abe!"

"Oh, she'll say it. She does what she's told."

"Abe, you dog!"

"She knows better'n give me away. She's all right."

"Abe, you devil!"

"I've tied you both up, old yellow Yid! You and her. See?"

The receiver was livid. He trembled with rage and, but for the knowledge that The Mole could have killed him in a struggle, he would have thrown himself at Lammie. His anger mastered him and he threw out a finger, shaking and accusing in the excess of his fury.

"I won't touch the notes now! I'll blow up everything! I'll deny you gave me the watches! They'll never know that bit! I'll tell them you have the notes! They will get you and you'll swing, Mole!"

Lammie shrugged his shoulders and threw the stub of his cigarette into the fireplace.

"Not so fast, Yid! If the cops come for me I won't run. I'll hand 'em a speel. But they won't get a scrap of evidence to pin on me. You've had your chance to help me out and you've refused. All right. I know where to hide the notes. And when you are in the dock--you and the wife--I'll lift the swag and hit the trail somewhere."

"I'll tell them you came here with it," yelled the receiver, triumphantly.

"Huh! They'll believe me first when I say I came to ask you where you got the note you gave my wife and why you gave it her! You and she can argue it out before the judge!"

The receiver was staggered at the audacity of the defense this human mole had prepared. It was feasible, cunning, as plausible as anything the receiver could say. And The Mole's wife would back The Mole up with her blind loyalty. It was two against one. The receiver was caught, hemmed about by the scheme of The Mole.

The burglar laughed sardonically, lifted his empty belt, and buckled it around his waist with deliberation. The receiver stood like a man bewildered, not knowing which way to turn, yet watching The Mole's movements with a strange, paralyzed stare.

He saw The Mole choose another cigarette from his case, light it, and throw the match down. He saw him button up his coat, pull his cap down over his forehead, and stride across the room. The bang of the front door aroused him.

"I'll find out where he hides the notes!" he cried, swiftly. "I'll follow him!"

A voice from the dark hall answered him as the door of the room was flung open.

"If you follow me, Yid, I'll croak you!"

The Mole was standing in the dim passage. He had not gone out at all. He had banged the door to make the receiver believe that he had.

The two men gazed at each other for a tense moment. Lammie was grinning at the success of his trick.

"I wanted to see what you'd do, Yid. I expected you'd rush out to follow me. Listen here. If you follow me a step, I'll murder you!"

The receiver collapsed into a chair, his head dropped on his chest. He had been beaten. After a time he raised his head. The Mole was still regarding him from the passage.

"It's all right, Abe, I won't follow you. Honest to goodness."

"I know you won't," replied The Mole, grimly.

"But, Abe, you'll make a mistake. You work too much alone, Abe. All them that work alone make a mistake one day."

In spite of himself The Mole started. The words were those his wife had used. But he tossed his head defiantly.

"It's you that has made a mistake, Yid. And my wife, too. She made a mistake. I haven't any use for either of you."

The words revealed the depths of his scheme. Abe Lammie had no compunction about involving his wife in the toils he had cast around the receiver. He was sacrificing her as he was prepared to sacrifice anyone, in order to cover his own trail. The sexes of moles build separate fortresses.

The door banged once more. This time The Mole had really gone.

It was gray evening when he arrived in the main street of the suburb. He had a meal in a mean restaurant. He heard the newsboys call the evening's news, the news of the murder and burglary. He did not buy a newspaper because he could not read much. But, having finished his meal, he set out on the next stage of his plan.

He bought a ball of cord, and at a green grocery stall he persuaded the proprietor to sell an empty potato sack. Then he strolled toward the outskirts of the suburb. It was dark now. He passed out toward the meadows. He sat down by a hedge and parceled up his booty.

He tied the bundles of notes together, adding the notes he had received from the "fence" for the watches. He put the loose silver, which was in a canvas bag, on top of the notes, but retained sufficient for his immediate wants. With his tools he dug a hole and put the tools, wrapped in the case, into the hole and covered it up, marking the spot by a tree and putting a large stone on the top. With the notes and silver tied up in his sack he rose to his feet and struck across the country, his bundle under his arm.

He went straight to the excavations he had noted from the train when he arrived at the suburb. He descended the embankment of loose rubble and rock and took a pickax, which he carried toward a large tree well away from the diggings. He dug another hole at the tree roots and buried his money, marking the tree so that he would know it again. Then he returned the pickax and in time reached the high-road.

He went back to see if the receiver was still at home. There was a light in the room where he had interviewed the receiver, but The Mole wanted to make sure. He threw a pebble against the window. The receiver's head appeared as the blind was drawn aside. The Mole dropped down among the shrubbery, and when the receiver's head was withdrawn The Mole moved away, grinning to himself. The receiver was where Lammie wanted him to be.

The Mole then went home. He was perfectly content. His plans had worked without a hitch.

There was an arrangement with his wife that she manipulated the blind of their front room as a signal to him when he was returning home. If the blind was halfway down, cutting equally across the upper and lower sashes of the window, it meant that the police were waiting inside to interview him. The police often called on The Mole after a burglary. He had been in prison several times. Now, however, he had his defenses so well set that he was without any anxiety. He acted characteristically, banging the gate as he entered the front garden, and walking into the front room boldly enough.

He whistled softly to himself as he entered the room. Two men were sitting behind the door; his wife was by the fire. Her eyes fluttered toward her husband.

"From the Yard," she said, with a movement of her hand toward the visitors. "They want a word with you, Abe. I've told 'em you've been on the straight. Lookin' for a job of work, I told them, which you can prove."

"You bet," said The Mole.

He turned toward the men, who had risen to their feet.

"I'm glad you come. I want a word with you about a fiver that a Yid give my wife. I've warned her about that fiver and I was up seein' the Yid now. If he's been using her to pass stuff----"

"We did come about money," said one of the men.

"Expected it. Huh."

The Mole took a cigarette and lit it in a matter-of-fact way. It was just as he had thought. His wife would be taken, not himself.

"But there is something else, Lammie," went on the man. "I have a warrant for your arrest. There is another charge against you."

"Come off it," laughed The Mole. "I hadn't anything to do with that fiver. My wife will tell you who gave it to her. What's the other charge, anyway?"

"The watchman of a store has been murdered, Lammie. Fingerprints were found on a showcase that was upset. You forgot to wear gloves before you pushed it over. But the main charge is not burglary. That watchman was an ex-convict who had been in his job only a few weeks. We have identified him all right. The charge against you is parricide."

"What's that?" asked The Mole, hoarsely.

"A parricide," explained the officer as he put the handcuffs on the unresisting Mole, "is a man who murders his own father."

The judge paused for an impressive moment, then stretched out his hand toward one of the two glasses on the table before the waiter.

To his astonishment and chagrin, the waiter raised a remonstrating finger.