Sanc returned in a very hostile frame of mind. “We’ve been bilked, kid. It was a French imitation. Been on the market ten years. I sold it to Tom Dennison, who runs the Wasatch gambling house in the Lake, for a hundred and fifty dollars, just enough to pay expenses. If you locate a few more capers like that you’ll put us in the poorhouse.”

I reported my findings in Montgomery Street, and Sanc after looking them over carefully pronounced two of the getaways feasible.

“Kid,” he said, “I read in the papers some time ago that a man named Charlie Rice, in New York City, put on a cheap, black alpaca coat, put his cap in his pocket, and with a pencil on his ear walked into a bank and behind the counter where there were twenty clerks at work. Unnoticed, he picked up twenty-five thousand dollars in bank notes and walked out.