of humanity, the better pleased I'll be. These
crowds of New Yorkers don't give a fellow a chance to take a deep
breath for fear he'll crush in somebody else's ribs."

"Here we are," said Jack, turning in at a tall office building, near
lower Broadway, with old St. Paul's and its churchyard, filled now
with loitering clerks spending their dinner hour among the graves,
just across the way.

Once more an express elevator whisked the trio skyward. At the
fourteenth floor they alighted, made their way to an office, the glass
door of which bore no lettering except the number "12," and entered.

"Inspector Condon, please," said Jack, to a fat young man, smoking a
long black cigar, who sat in his shirtsleeves at a desk, reading
through a mass of papers.

The latter got to his feet, and held out his hand. He had a jolly face
which broke into a grin of welcome, as he extended his hand.

"That's me," he said.

Jack was rather taken aback. He had not expected to meet so young a
man in a position of such responsibility. This man could not have been
more than 26 or 28 years of age. Passing over his astonishment,
however, Jack introduced himself and his companions and then extended
the card of introduction given him a year before by Inspector Burton,
when they left Washington, but which heretofore had not been
presented.

"So," said Inspector Condon, reading the note on the back of the card;
"you are the three chaps who made such a stir in that business in
California? Mighty glad to meet you. Sit down. What can I do for
you?"

"That remains to be seen," said Jack. "However, we have run into
something rather curious, and we thought you might be interested. So
if you have time to listen, we'll spin the yarn."

"All the time in the world, friend," said Inspector Condon, genially.
"Shoot."

Thereupon, Jack proceeded to relate the story of the secret radio
plant, the mysterious plane probably controlled by radio and thus able
to operate in silence, and the facts as they had obtained them from
Mr. Temple regarding the occupant of the old Brownell place known as
the "haunted house."

"Ha," said Inspector Condon; "if that fellow is a liquor smuggler, the
'haunted house' has spirits in it, all right, all right."

And he laughed uproariously at his own joke.

"But, now, boys," he added, sobering; "an investigation into this
matter would be somewhat outside of my province. However, I'll place
this information before the prohi