ons of wonderment. Now all realize
that the Nation itself is imperilled.

"This is another Suratt conspiracy," says one man to another.

"Will it reach the President?" is the question that men do not dare ask,
though they think it.

"This is not the work of cranks, you may depend upon it," observes a
Central office detective, who has a reputation for sagacity. His
fellow-officer, who stands a pace in advance of him, turns and inquires
if the detective thinks he could run the gang down.

"If I am set on the case I shall not waste much time in looking for
ordinary crooks," replies the detective. "It will be my aim to unearth a
society of malcontents."

At another point a party of club men, who have come down town from their
Fifth avenue haunt, stand discussing the terrible events.

"Do you remember the night that the news was received here that Lincoln
has been shot?" asks a patriarchal New Yorker of an equally ancient
citizen.

"Indeed I do. You and I were at the Niblo's Garden, weren't we?"

"That's right. It's strange that history should repeat itself; and that
we should be together to-night?"

"There is quite a difference between the murder of Lincoln and this
series of crimes," observes one of the younger men. "This night's, or
rather day's, work is aimed at all classes of wealth. It is evident that
it is an attack on capital. And the inexplicable part of the news is,
that in every instance the murderers have cheated the gallows."

"Come, move on there," gruffly shouts a policeman.

"Hallo, Mason," cries one of the club men as he pushes his way to the
side of the policeman.

"O! How do you do, Mr. Castor," says the blue-coat, in deferential tone.

"Mason, these are my friends; we want to stand here for a few minutes.
It's all right, isn't it?"

"Certainly, it's all right. I thought that you were a lot of the idle
crowd, sir, and we have had orders to keep everyone on the move. But
you're all right."

Mason had been appointed to the force by the Clubman's influence.

Turning from his patron the policeman roughs his way through the crowd
and makes the men and women "move on."

"Nothing like having a friend at court, eh?" laughingly cries one of Mr.
Castor's friends.

"It is this custom of privilege that has brought on this calamity,"
soberly observes the philosopher of the group.

A riot breaks out at this moment at the foot of the Franklin statue; and
the shouts and curses of the men who are be