Short Stories
monds. Assured that Matt had not carried them away, he
looked toward the kerosene stove with a guilty start. Then he
hurriedly lighted it, filled the coffee-pot at the sink, and put it
over the flame.
The coffee was boiling when Matt returned, and while the
latter cut the bread and put a slice of butter on the table, Jim
poured out the coffee. It was not until he sat down and had
taken a few sips of the coffee, that Matt pulled out the morn-
ing paper from his pocket.
"We was way off," he said. "I told you I didn't dast figger
out how fat it was. Look at that."
He pointed to the head-lines on the first page.
"SWIFT NEMESIS ON BUJANNOFF'S TRACK," they read.
"MURDERED IN HIS SLEEP AFTER ROBBING HIS PART-
NER."
"There you have it!" Matt cried. "He robbed his partner—
robbed him like a dirty thief."
"Half a million of jewels missin'," Jim read aloud. He put
the paper down and stared at Matt. "That's what I told you,"
the latter said. "What in hell do we know about jools? Half a
million!—an' the best I could figger it was a hundred thousan'.
Go on an' read the rest of it."
They read on silently, their heads side by side, the un-
touched coffee growing cold; and ever and anon one or the
other burst forth with some salient printed fact.
"I'd like to seen Metzner's face when he opened the safe at
the store this mornin'," Jim gloated.
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