A New VictimI
t was about five when we got back to the Dump.
The front door stood open, as usual, and we entered without summoning a servant. There seemed to be no one about downstairs, and we started up for our rooms. The door into Nick's den was about a dozen feet from the head of the stairs, but not in a direct line with it. As we approached we heard voices inside the room—an indistinguishable murmur from Reggie Mygatt, and then Nick's exasperated tones:
“You had ten thousand last week. Good God! Do you think I'm made of money?”
Another murmur from Reggie.
“Well, there'll be some in tonight. You can have it then.”
Reggie evidently asked a question, and Nick answered: “Ten o'clock.”
They came out of the room and saw us on the top step. Nick's sharp black eyes narrowed, and for a b
