dropped this suddenly on the table, as Mike Hagan, three feet away on
the floor, groaned and sat up.

Hagan's eyes swept, bewildered, confused, around him, questioningly
at Connie Myers--and then, resting suddenly on his bound wrists, they
narrowed menacingly.

"Damn you, you smashed me with that sledge on PURPOSE!" he burst
out--and began to struggle to his feet.

With a brutal chuckle, Connie Myers pushed Hagan back and shoved his
revolver under the other's nose.

"Sure!" he admitted evenly. "And you keep quiet, or I'll finish you
now--instead of letting the police do it!" He laughed out jarringly.
"You're under arrest, you know, for the murder of Luther Doyle, and for
robbing the poor old nut of his savings in his house here."

Hagan wrenched himself up on his elbow.

"What--what do you mean?" he stammered.

"Oh, don't worry!" said Connie Myers maliciously. "I'M not making the
arrest, I'd rather the police did that. I'm not mixing up in it, and
by and by"--he lifted up the hypodermic for Hagan to see--"I'm going
to shoot a little dope into you that'll keep you quiet while I get away
myself."

Hagan's face had gone a grayish white--he had caught sight of the money
on the table, and his eyes kept shifting back and forth from it to
Myers' face.

"Murder!" he said huskily. "There is no murder. I don't know who Doyle
is. You said this house was yours--you hired me to come here. You said
you were going to tear down the fireplace and build another. You said I
could work evenings and earn some extra money."

"Sure, I did!" There was a vicious leer now on Connie Myers' lips. "But
you don't think I picked you out by ACCIDENT, do you? Your reputation,
my bucko, was just shady enough to satisfy anybody that it wouldn't be
beyond you to go the limit. Sure, you murdered Doyle! Listen to this."
He took up the letter:

"TO THE POLICE: Luther Doyle was murdered this evening in the tenement
at 67 ---- Street. You'll find his body in a room on the second floor.
If you want to know who did it, look in Mike Hagan's room on the floor
above. There's a paper stuck under the edge of Hagan's table with a
piece of chewing gum, where he hid it. You'll know what it is when
you go out and take a look at Doyle's house in Pelham. Yours truly, A
FRIEND."

Mike Hagan did not speak--his lips were twitching, and there was horror
creeping into his eyes.

"D'ye get me!" sneered Connie Myers. "Tell your story--who'd believe it!
I go