With his hands, still carefully
gloved, he rubbed the stencils on his hair, as if to cover them
with a film of natural oils. Then he deliberately pressed them
over the statue in several places. It was a peculiar action and he
seemed to fairly gloat over it when it was done, and the bust
returned to its place, covering the hole.
As noiselessly as he had come, he made his exit after one last
malignant look at Dodge. It was now but the work of a moment to
remove the wires he had placed, and climb out of the window,
taking them and destroying the evidence down in the cellar.
A low whistle from the masked crook, now again in the shadow,
brought his pal stealthily to his side.
"It's all right," he whispered hoarsely to the man. "Now, you
attend to Limpy Red."
The villainous looking pal nodded and without another word the two
made their getaway, safely, in opposite directions.
. . . . . . . .
When Limpy Red, still trembling, left the office of Dodge earlier
in the evening, he had repaired as fast as his shambling feet
would take him to his favorite dive upon Park Row. There he might
have been seen drinking with any one who came along, for Limpy had
money--blood money,--and the recollection of his treachery and
revenge must both be forgotten and celebrated.
Had the Bowery "sinkers" not got into his eyes, he might have
noticed among the late revellers, a man who spoke to no one but
took his place nearby at the bar.
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