The second man was even better known than the first; there was not a crook in New York but would side-step Lannigan of headquarters, and do it with amazing celerity--if he could! "Something up! But it's not my hunt!" muttered Jimmie Dale; then, with a shrug of his shoulders: "Queer the way those headquarters chaps fascinate and give me a thrill every time I see them, even if I haven't a ghost of a reason for imagining that--" The sentence was never finished.

Jimmie Dale's face was gray.

The street seemed to rock about him--and he stared, like a man stricken, white to the lips, ahead of him.

THE LETTER WAS GONE! His hand, wriggling from his empty pocket, swept away the sweat beads that were bursting from his forehead.

It had come at last--the pitcher had gone once too often to the well! Numbed for an instant, his brain cleared now, working with lightning speed, leaping from premise to conclusion.