"The trouble with you fellows is that you don't know when you're well off--but the sooner you find it out the better, unless you want another lesson like yesterday." He made the addition on the pad.

"Fifteen thousand, eight hundred dollars," he announced softly.

"That's seven thousand, nine hundred for the three of you to divide, less five hundred from The Mope." Clarie Deane's eyes narrowed.

His hands were on his knees, hidden by the desk.
"There's more'n twenty there," he said sullenly--and drew a match across the under edge of the desk with a long, crackling noise.
Stangeist's face lost its suavity, a snarl curled his lips; but, about to reply, he sprang suddenly to his feet instead, his head turned sharply toward the door.
"What's that!" he said hoarsely.

"It's not the servants, they wouldn't dare to--" Stangeist's words ended in a gulp.