Hickey took Greg to a restaurant on Third Avenue that to him represented the ne plus ultra in eating-places. It was called "Dick's" on its signboards, or "Greasy Dick's" in affection by its habitués. Whenever a restaurant gets a derisive nickname like this you may be sure it is a good one. Within there was a double row of mahogany tables end to against the side walls, leaving an aisle in the middle up and down which paraded the sociable waiters, who published each man's order to the kitchen in the voices of stentors. Greg and Hickey sat down together; elegantly dressed young gentleman and shabby owl-driver; and such was the democratic spirit of Dick's that none paid the least attention.

They ordered an extra double sirloin with onions, the most expensive dish the bill-of-fare afforded. It was a treat to hear the impressiveness with which the order was transmitted to the kitchen. On the way to the restaurant Greg had stopped at a stationer's to buy a map of Long Island, and while they waited for their meal he studied it.

"What's the program for to-night?" asked Hickey.

"Holding-up a dead-wagon," said Greg with an entirely serious air.

Hickey fell back in his seat aghast. "What!"

Greg laughed.

Hickey shrugged philosophically. "Oh well, you're the pilot," he said. "It's up to you. Remember I'm a nervous man, that's all."

With the point of a fork Greg indicated Silver Pond on the map. "There's our mark," said he. "We cross the Williamsburgh bridge and leave Long Island City by Van Buren Avenue. The rest is easy. The Crematory's not marked on the map but——"

"What's a crematory?" interrupted Hickey. "Anythin' like a creamery?"

"Not much like it," said Greg. "We'll go to the railway station and inquire from there. I suppose I ought to have a gun——"

"Good God! what for?"

"How can you pull off a hold-up without a gun?"

"Then you mean it, a hold-up?"

"Surest thing you know."

"Lordy! Lordy!" murmured Hickey. "What a fellow you are! You'll have to attend to the gun-play yourself. I'm too nervous!"

"I will. I don't mean to use it really, just flash it. We've got a little all-steel monkey-wrench that will give a perfect imitation of an automatic in the dark. That will do. We must fill up the flivver with gas, put in a quart of oil, and let down the top."

"Why the top?" asked Hickey. "It's cold."

"You'll see. We have to have sixty or seventy feet of rope too."

"Is anybody going to be hanged?" asked Hickey with a shiver.

"No. That's to stretch across the road."

Replete and glowing inside, they lighted big cigars and returned to the flivver. Having filled up with gas and oil and bought the rope, they left town by the route indicated. The journey to Silver Pond was without incident. Having plenty of time they let the old flivver roll at her natural gait along the suburban highways. Silver Pond marked the limit of the suburbs in this direction; beyond was the open country.

They reached the station at twenty minutes to nine. The agent's office was closed, but there were several little stores opposite including a bar. Here Greg applied for information.

"What time does the train get here that brings the—er—bodies to the crematory?" he asked, looking as much like a bereaved relative as he could.

"Nine-three," was the reply. "Expectin' somebody?"—this with a sympathetic air.

Greg nodded lugubriously, and the bar-tender shook his head in sympathetic unison. "What'll you have?" he asked, suggesting that therein lay the cure for all woes.

"Rye high-ball," said Greg. "Do they send the bodies right out to the crematory to-night?"

"Sure. When they're notified there's anybody coming the motor-truck meets the train. He'll be along any minute now."

"Oh well, I'll drive on to the crematory and wait for brother there," said Greg.

However, he took time to sip his drink, for he wished to have a look at the motor truck in order to be sure of identifying it on the return trip. In the course of a few minutes it drew up at the station opposite, and Greg marked it, a covered van of the style ordinarily used by undertakers, abounding with black-enameled trappings of woe. Greg observed that for its duty on the night roads it carried a search-light over the driver's head. This would effectually serve to distinguish it from other cars.

The bar-tender came to the door and pointed out the road they should take. "Three miles," he said; "follow the macadam and the telephone poles. You can't miss it. It's their own road that they built. Nobody wants to live down that way."

In order to avoid exciting remark Greg got in the body of the cab, and they started. As soon as they were out of sight of the saloon, he swung himself around the running board to the seat beside Hickey.

"The train is due in fifteen minutes, supposing it's on time," he said. "Give him five minutes to load up, that's twenty minutes' start we have. Time to run all the way out to the crematory, choose the best spot along the road and come back to it."

"I like this job less and less," said Hickey with feeling. "I'm a nervous man."

"I'll play the heavy villain's part," said Greg calmly. "You only have to be property man."

"Suppose there's two of them?"

"There was only one on the driver's seat just now."

"He might have a friend coming out on the train."

"Sure, and he might have a hand grenade in each pocket."

"Oh, Lor'!" said Hickey, taking it quite seriously.

It was a clear night, moderately cold, and the moon was shining. This was fortunate for them, since the old flivver, designed exclusively for street travel, carried no headlights. By the light of the moon Greg searched the roadsides for the spot best suited to his purpose. For that matter one place was about as good as another along that lonely road. They passed no houses. Two hundred yards from the station they plunged into the woods, and continued through woods the most part of the way. What fields they passed were evidently the back fields of farms that fronted on other roads. The road was smooth, level, and with but few turns in it.

In a few minutes a cleared hollow or vale opened up before them with the crematory buildings grouped around a pond gleaming wanly in the moonlight. The surroundings were laid out like a park. The main building with its tall slender chimney had the look of a power house or a pumping-station; but knowing what it was, this chimney had a gruesome fascination of its own.

"All that is mortal of many a man has gone up that stack," said Greg.

Hickey shuddered. "I'll take the worms for mine," said he.

"Back again now," said Greg. "I have the spot in mind."

About half way back Greg ordered Hickey to stop. "That tall tree ahead on the right. Draw up in the shadow beneath it. There's a bend in the road a hundred yards ahead. Far enough to give him time to stop, but not far enough to give him the tip to turn back."

"I don't like this job," wailed Hickey, for perhaps the dozenth time. His teeth were chattering.

Greg, who was not exactly an experienced highwayman himself, felt a little shaky and dry in the mouth, but if he had let Hickey see that the driver would surely have collapsed. Greg maintained the assumption of perfect calm.

"You have nothing to worry about," said he. "If anything goes wrong you were simply hired by me to bring you out here. You had never seen me before. And when we got here I forced you to do my bidding at the point of a pistol, see?"

"Suppose the driver has a gun?"

"Mine will be out first."

"But yours is only a monkey-wrench."

"He won't know that."

"But——"

"Look here, you're wasting time. Put out your side-lights, take the tail light off your car, and then come help me stretch this rope across the road."

They got the rope ready between tree and tree, and then let it lie in the road in case another car came along before the one they wished to stop. Greg tied a handkerchief in the middle of the rope to make sure it would not escape the driver's attention. He............