It was in the old unused laundry-room that "Braun, the specialist," hastily burned all Clayton's clothing in a long-idle furnace.
"His hat and shoes can go in with my trash; the pistol I can drop overboard," murmured the cowardly wretch.

He cast a callous glance now and then at the body of his victim, cut off in the flower of life and hope.
"No body marks, no tell-tale finger rings; that's good," the crafty villain mused.

"He is stone dead now; he will need no watching," was the brute's final verdict.
And then he stole cat-like up the stairs to gloat over the contents of the bank portmanteau.

He hastily transferred the ill-gotten fortune to a heavy black valise and, cutting the rifled portmanteau in pieces, he sought the furnace-room once more.
There was no sound in the rooms above as the villain toiled on, but Leah Einstein, closeted there with the drugged woman who had been used as a fatal decoy, could hear the sound of hammering below.
She fancied that Braun was preparing to escape, having removed the dazed victim of the knock-out drops by the help of confederates from the saloon.
It was nearing sunset when Fritz Braun himself brought food and wine to his frightened accomplice.
He cast a searching glance upon the sleeping beauty and then said roughly: "Eat and drink.

You can surely trust me.