your hand. Then I'll move away. You stand looking in the window
a minute or so after I leave you, will you?"

"Sure," agreed Scammon, cheerfully.

"And don't do anything so plainly that any passerby can detect
the fact that you and I are meeting there. Don't let anyone see
what I slip into your hand."

"That'll be all right," declared Tip Scammon, readily enough.

"And mind you, that's the last money you're ever to ask me for."

"That'll be all right, too," came readily enough from the jailbird.

"Then good-bye until to-morrow. Don't follow me too closely."

"Sure not," promised Tip. "Ye don't want anyone to know that
I'm your friend, and I'm good at keepin' secrets."

For two or three minutes young Scammon remained standing under
the bare tree. But his gaze followed the vanishing figure of
Fred Ripley, and a cunning look gleamed in Tip's eyes.

Fred Ripley, when he had heard of Tip going to prison without
saying a word, had been foolish enough to suppose that that
incident in his own life was closed. Fred had yet to learn that
evil remains a long time alive, and that its consequences hit
the evil doer harder than the victim.