Carlo had picked him up on the outskirts of the city in his disreputable car, and had driven him through the rain, tacking and turning, following secondary roads, avoiding towns and hamlets, so that, had he been sitting by the driver's side, he might have grown confused. But he was not. He was sitting in the darkness of the little van, and saw nothing. Wellingdale, with the shadows who had been watching him, had not been prepared for the car. A tramp with a motorcar was a monstrosity. Even Genter himself was taken aback when the car drew up to the pavement where he was waiting, and the voice of Carlo hissed, "Jump in!"

    They crossed the crest of a weed-grown ridge. Below, Genter saw a stretch of ground littered with rusting trollies, twisted Decourville rails, and pitted with deep, rain-filled holes. Beyond, on the sharp line of the quarry's edge, was a small wooden hut, and towards this Carlo led the way.

    "Not nervous, are you?" he asked, and there was a sneer in his voice.

    "Not very," said the other coolly. "I suppose the fellows are in that shack?"

    Carlo laughed softly.

    "There are no others," he said, "only the Frog himself. He comes up the quarry face—there's a flight of steps that come up under the hut. Good idea, eh? The hut hangs over the edge, and you can't even see the steps, not if you hang over. I tried once. They'd never catch him, not if they brought forty million cops."

    "Suppose they surrounded the quarry?" suggested Genter, but the man scoffed.

    "Wouldn't he know it was being surrounded before he came in? He knows everything, does the Frog." He looked down at the other's hand.

    "It won't hurt," he said, "and it's worth it if it does! You'll never be without a friend again, Harry. If you get into trouble, there's always the best lawyer to defend you. And you're the kind of chap we're looking for—there is plenty of trash. Poor fools that want to get in for the sake of the pickings. But you'll get big work, and if you do a special job for him, there's hundreds and hundreds of money for you If you're hungry or ill, the Frogs will find you out and help you. That's pretty good, ain't it?"

    Genter said nothing. They were within a dozen yards of the hut now, a strong structure built of stout timber bulks, with one door and a shuttered window.

    Motioning Genter to remain where he was, the man called Carlo went forward arid tapped on the door. Genter heard a voice, and then he saw the man step to the window, and the shutter open an inch. There followed a long conversation in an undertone, and then Carlo came back.

    "He says he has a job for you that will bring in a thousand—you're lucky! Do you know Rochmore?"

    Genter nodded. He knew that aristocratic suburb.

    "There's a man there that has got to be coshed. He comes home from his club every night by the eleven-five. Walks to his house. It is up a dark road, and a fellow could get him with a club without trouble. Just one smack and he's finished. It's not killing, you understand."

    "Why does he want me to do it?" asked the tall tramp curiously.

    The explanation was logical.

    "All new fellows have to do something to show their pluck and straightness. What do you say?"

    Genter had not hesitated. "I'll do it," he said.

    Carlo returned to the window, and presently he called his companion.

    "Stand here and put your left arm through the window," he ordered.

    Genter pulled back the cuff of his soddened coat and thrust his bare arm through the opening. His hand was caught in a firm grip, and immediately he felt something soft and wet pressed against his wrist.