at the couple on the sofa, who were still jerking so fretfully at each other's clinking wrist-bones. They reminded me of twins in a nursery bed, accusing each other of trespass on private territory. And they looked as if they would gladly and readily have bitten each other's ears off.
"Whose office?" I inquired.
"Our office, of course!" was Big Ben's prompt retort. But I was thinking of other things.
"Where's Bud Griswold?" I demanded.
It wasn't Big Ben who answered that question, but Copperhead Kate herself.
"Oh, it's up to that king of snitches to keep himself safe," she announced with her mirthless cackle of a laugh that made me think of a guinea-hen. "You can bet he wasn't going to let anything interfere with his fade-away!"
"He's gone?" I gasped.
"Sure he's gone—gone where this bunch will never see him again. And what's more, he took your bag of junk with him. Trust Bud for that!"
I knew what this would mean. Bud had always been a "clean" worker. I remembered his method. He never left any loose trails. When he took gold, he always melted it down, no matter what it might lose in the process. And when it came to Tiffany
