hours in a cell."

"Pah--the wretch! I don't want these reptiles to be crushed; what I want
is to recover Miss Bartlett. Would it not be best to leave them their
liberty and watch them?"

"I've always found a seven days' remand very helpful," mused the
detective.

"In ordinary crime, yes. But here we have Rachel Craik, who would suffer
martyrdom rather than speak; Fowle, a mere tool, who knows nothing
except what little he is told; and a thick-headed brute named Mick the
Wolf, who does what his master bids him. Don't you see that in prison
they are useless. At liberty they may help by trying to communicate with
Voles."

"I'm half inclined to agree with you. Now to frighten them. Keep your
face and tongue under control; I'll try a dodge that seldom fails."

They re-entered the house. Jim was doing sentry-go in the hall. The
prisoners were sitting mute, save that Mick the Wolf uttered an
occasional growl of pain; his wounded arm was hurting him sorely.

"We're not going to worry any more about you," said Steingall
contemptuously as he unlocked the hand-cuffs with which he had been
compelled to secure Rachel and Fowle.

"Yes, you will," was the woman's defiant cry. "Your outrageous
conduct--"

"Oh, pull that stuff on some one likely to be impressed by it. It comes
a trifle late in the day when Miss Winifred Marchbanks is in the hands
of her friends and Voles on his way to prison. I don't even want you,
Rachel Bartlett, unless the State attorney decides that you ought to be
prosecuted."

The woman's eyes gleamed like those of a spiteful cat. The detective's
cool use of Winifred's right name, and of the name by which Rachel Craik
herself ought to be known, was positively demoralizing. Fowle, too, was
greatly alarmed. The police-officer said nothing about not wanting him.
With Voles's superior will withdrawn, he began to quake again. But
Rachel was a dour New Englander, of different metal to a man from the
East Side.

"If you're speaking of my niece," she said, "you have been misled by the
hussy, and by that man of hers there. Mr. Voles is her father. I have
every proof of my words. You can bring none of yours."

Steingall, eying Fowle, laughed. "You will be able to tell us all about
it in the witness-box, Rachel Bartlett," he said.

"How dare you call me by that name?"

"Because it's your right one. Craik was your mother's name. If friend
Voles had only kept his hands clean, or even treated you honorably, y