Cunning, shrewd, crafty, conscienceless, cold-blooded--that was Stangeist.
The form and features of the man pictured themselves in Jimmie Dale's mind--the six-foot muscular frame, that was invariably clothed in attire of the most fashionable cut; the thin lips with their oily, plausible smile, the straight black hair that straggled into pin point, little black eyes, the dark face with its high cheek bones, which, with the pronounced aquiline nose and the persistent rumour that he was a quarter caste, had led the underworld, prejudiced always in favour of a "monaker," to dub the man the "Indian Chief." Jimmie Dale laughed again--still unpleasantly.

So Stangeist had taken the plunge at last and branched out into a wider field, had he?
Well, there was nothing surprising in that--except that he had not done it before! The irony of it lay in the fact that at last he had been TOO clever, overstepped himself in his own cleverness, that was all.

It was Australian Ike, The Mope, and Clarie Deane that Stangeist had gathered around him, the Tocsin had said--and there were none worse in Larry the Bat's wide range of acquaintanceship than those three.

Stangeist had made himself master of Australian Ike, The Mope, and Clarie Deane--and he had driven them a little too hard on the division of the spoils--and laughed at them, and cracked the whip much after the fashion that the trainer in the cage handles the growling beasts around him.
A dozen of the crimes that had appalled and staggered New York they had committed under his leadership; and then, it seemed, they had quarrelled furiously, the three pitted against Stangeist, threatening him, demanding a more equitable share of the proceeds.

None was better aware than Stangeist that threats from men of their calibre were likely to result in a grim aftermath--and Stangeist, yesterday, the Tocsin said, had answered them as no other man than Stangeist would either have thought of or have dared to do.