“No—­sure, it ain’t!” admitted Larry the Bat ingratiatingly.  “But go on, keep movin’, Slimmy!  Wot’s he done wid de stuff?”

“Done wid it!” echoed the Magpie, with a short laugh.  “Wot do youse t’ink!  He’s been luggin’ it home to his swell joint up dere on de avenoo, an’ crammin’ his safe full of it.”

Larry the Bat sucked in his breath.

“Gee, dat’s soft!” he murmured, and then suddenly, as though with painful inspiration:  “Say, Slimmy—­say, are youse sure youse ain’t been handed a steer?”

The Magpie grinned wickedly.

“I ain’t fallin’ fer steers!” he said shortly.  “Dis is on de level.”

Jimmie Dale lurched up from his chair, and, leaning over the lamp chimney, drew wheezily on his cigarette to get a light.  His eyes sought the Tocsin’s face.  To all intents and purposes she was entirely absorbed in the Magpie.  He sat down again to gape, with well-stimulated, doglike admiration, at Slimmy Joe.  Was this, too, A plant?  Why had the Magpie come to them with this story of Henry LaSalle?  And then, the next instant, as the Magpie spoke, his suspicions were allayed.

“Let’s get down to cases!” the Magpie invited crisply.  “I didn’t blow in here just by luck.  Dis Henry LaSalle is de guy youse worked fer once, ain’t he, Mag?  Dat’s de spiel, ain’t it?—­he sent youse up fer pinchin’ de tacks out of his carpets!”

“I never pinched nothin’!” snarled Silver Mag truculently.  “He’s a dirty liar!  I never did!”

“Cut it out!  Cut it out!  Can dat!” complained the Magpie patiently.  “De point is, youse worked in his house, didn’t youse?”

“Sure I did!” snapped the Tocsin, sullenly aggressive; “but—­”

“Well, den, dat’s wot I want, dat’s wot I come fer, Mag—­a plan of de house.  See?”

Jimmie Dale could feel the Tocsin’s eyes upon him, questioning, searching, seeking a cue.  A plan of the house—­yes or no?  And a decision on the instant!

“Sure!” said Larry the Bat brightly.  “Dat’s wot I was t’inkin’ youse were after all de time.  Say, youse are all right, Slimmy!  Youse are de kind to work wid!  Go on, Mag, draw de dope fer Slimmy.  Dat’s better dan tryin’ to put one over on de swell guy.  Dis’ll make him squeal fer fair!”

The Magpie produced a pencil and a piece of paper from his pocket, and laid them on the table in front of the Tocsin.

“Dere youse are,” he announced.  “Help yerself, an’ go to it, Mag!”

The Tocsin, evidently not quite certain of her part, wet the pencil doubtfully on the end of her tongue.

“I ain’t never drawed plans,” she said anxiously.  “Mabbe”—­she glanced at Jimmie Dale—­“mabbe I dunno how to do it right.”

“Aw, go ahead!” nodded Larry the Bat.  “Youse can do it right, Mag.  Youse don’t have to make no oil paintin’!  All de Magpie wants is de doors an’ windows, eh, Slimmy?”

“Sure,” agreed the Magpie encouragingly.  “Dat’s all, Mag.  Just mark de rooms out on de first floor, an’ de basement.  Youse can explain wot youse ‘re doin’ as youse goes along.  I’ll get youse.”