her him."

"Put down these names," said Ashton-Kirk. Burgess at once produced a
note-book and a pencil. "Cato Jones," read the investigator.

"I know him," said Burgess as he jotted down the name. "A mulatto who
keeps an antique shop in Farson Street."

"Judah Rosen."

"He's likely," commented Burgess. "I saw a record of him once as written
up by the Manchester police. They made it so hot for him in England he
had to jump out."

The criminologist read out a number of additional names; then Burgess
closed his note-book and put it in his pocket. Ashton-Kirk took a folded
paper from a drawer and handed it to him.

"Here are your instructions. Work carefully, and whatever you do, don't
let any inkling of what you are after get out."

Burgess glanced at the document's contents, and at one point his mouth
puckered up as though he were going to whistle.

"All right," said he, as he refolded the paper and put it, also, in his
pocket. "Anything more?"

"Not now. But keep in touch."

Burgess promised to do so; and with a nod to Ashton-Kirk, and one to Mr.
Scanlon, he left the room.

"Burgess hasn't the natural tact of Fuller," said Ashton-Kirk as he
threw himself once more upon the sofa and began recharging the briar
pipe. "But he has done amazingly well at times. He has a pushing way
about him and seems to do things by sheer pressure in which a more
pointed intelligence would fail."

He lit the pipe and rearranged the rugs comfortably about his legs. Then
with a contented sigh, he lay back and looked at Scanlon.

"Well, we seem to be doing fairly, eh?" said he. "I rather think that
before long we'll make an end of this affair."

Bat crushed the fire from the end of his third cigarette against the
side of a pewter bowl upon the table. Then leaning toward the
investigator, his hands upon his knees, he said:

"I want to let you in on something I think you ought to know. This whole
matter has come to a point where it's best for me to declare my
intentions. Before very long I can see myself taking a stand; and when I
do, I don't want you to be surprised."

Ashton-Kirk looked at him, inquiringly, but said nothing.

"And to explain just what is behind this possible stand," proceeded
Scanlon, "I'll have to tell you something I've never told a soul
before." There was a direct bluntness in the voice and the manner of the
big athlete which men who are naturally diffident assume when they
approach certain subjects.