"
"I'll do that, too. Leave your address and I'll send a man up later to
wise you as to the scheme when I get one fixed up."
On a sheet torn from his memorandum book Bromfield wrote the name of
the club which he most frequented.
"Don't forget the newspapers. I want them to get the story," said the
clubman, rising.
"I'll see they cover the raid."
Bromfield, massaging a glove on to his long fingers, added another word
of caution. "Don't slip up on this thing. Lindsay's a long way from
being a soft mark."
"Don't I know it?" snapped Durand viciously. "There'll be no slip-up
this time if you do your part. We'll get him, and we'll get him right."
"Without any violence, of course."
"Oh, of course."
Was there a covert but derisive jeer concealed in that smooth assent?
Bromfield did not know, but he took away with him an unease that
disturbed his sleep that night.
Before the clubman was out of the hotel, Jerry was snapping
instructions at one of his satellites.
"Tail that fellow. Find where he goes, who he is, what girl he's
mashed on, all about him. See if he's hooked up with Lindsay. And
how? Hop to it! Did you get a slant at him as he went out?"
"Sure I did. He's my meat."
The tailer vanished.
Jerry stood at the window, still sullenly chewing his unlighted cigar,
and watched his late visitor and the tailer lose themselves in the
hurrying crowds.
"White-livered simp. 'No violence, Mr. Durand.' Hmp! Different here.
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