"Will you give me your word that I can do what you suggest—that it is feasible, possible?"
"Yes," said Gypsy Nan. "You can do it easily, and—and it's safe. It—it only wants a little nerve, and—and you've got that."
"I promise, then," said Rhoda Gray.
"Thank God!" Gypsy Nan pulled fiercely at Rhoda Gray's wrist. "Come nearer—nearer! You know Skarbolov, old Skarbolov, who keeps the antique store—on the street—around the corner from my place?"
Rhoda Gray nodded.
"He's rich!" whispered Gypsy Nan. "Think of it! Him—rich! But he gets the best of the Fifth Avenue crowd just because he keeps his joint in that rotten hole. They think they're getting the real thing in antiques! He's a queer old fool. Afraid people would know he had money if he kept it in the bank—afraid of a bank, too. Understand? We found out that every once in a while he'd change a lot of small bills for a big one—five-hundred-dollar bills—thousand-dollar bills. That put us wise. We began to watch him. It took months to find where he hid it. We've spent night after night searching through his shop. You can get in easily. There's no one there—upstairs is just a storage place for his extra stock. There's a big padlock on the back door, but there's a false link in the chain—count three links to the right from the padlock—we put it there, and"
Gypsy Nan's voice had become almost inaudible. She pulled at Rhoda Gray's wrist again, urging her closer.
"Listen—quick! I—my strength!" she panted. "An antique he never sells—old escritoire against rear wall—secret drawer—take out wide middle drawer—reach in and rub your hand along the top—you'll feel
