en _you_, what sort of weird specimen can Mr. Ralph V. Voles, of
Chicago, be? I'll look him up!"

CHAPTER IX

THE FLIGHT

Carshaw and Fowle enjoyed, let us say, a short but almost triumphal
march to the nearest police-station. Their escort of loafers and small
boys grew quickly in numbers and enthusiasm. It became known that the
arrest was made in East One Hundred and Twelfth Street, and that street
had suddenly become famous. The lively inhabitants of the East Side do
not bother their heads about grammatical niceties, so the gulf between
"the yacht murder" and "the yacht murderers" was easily bridged. The
connection was clear. Two men in a boat, and two men in the grip of
the law! It needed only Fowle's ensanguined visage to complete the
circle of reasoning. Consciousness of this ill-omened popularity
infuriated Carshaw and alarmed Fowle. When they arrived at the precinct
station-house each was inclined to wish he had never seen or heard of
Winifred Bartlett!

Their treatment by the official in charge only added fuel to the flame.
The patrolman explained that "these two were fighting about the girl
who lives in that house in East One Hundred and Twelfth," and this vague
statement seemed all-sufficient. The sergeant entered their names and
addresses. He went to the telephone and came back.

"Sit there!" he said authoritatively, and they sat there, Carshaw
trying to take an interest in a "drunk" who was brought in, and Fowle
alternately feeling the sore lump at the back of his head and the sorer
cartilage of his nose. After waiting half an hour Carshaw protested, but
the sergeant assured him that "a man from the Bureau" was _en route_ and
would appear presently. At last Clancy came in. That is why he was "out"
when Senator Meiklejohn inquired for him.

"H'lo!" he cried when he set eyes on Fowle. "My foreman bookbinder! Your
folio looks somewhat battered!"

"Glad it's you, Mr. Clancy," snuffled Fowle. "You can tell these cops--"

"Suppose _you_ tell me," broke in the detective, with a glance at
Carshaw.

"Yes, Fowle, speak up," said Carshaw. "You've a ready tongue. Explain
your fall from grace."

"There's nothing to it," growled Fowle. "I know the girl, an' asked her
to come with me this evening. She'd been fired by the firm, an'--"

"Ah! Who fired her?" Clancy's inquiry sounded most matter-of-fact.

"The boss, of course."

"Why?"

"Well--this newspaper stuff. He didn't like it."

"He told you