fetched in the notion, because from
this imposing center New York's guardians kept watch and ward over the
city.

"Clancy still waiting?" demanded Steingall of a policeman in uniform
who was on duty in an inquiry office.

"Yes, sir. He asked me to be on the lookout in case you turned up
unexpectedly, as he didn't want to miss you."

The Chief Inspector led his companions straight to the Detective
Bureau, taking good care to avoid the room in which the "covering"
reporters were gathered, because the Police Headquarters of New York,
unlike any similar department outside the bounds of the United States,
makes the press welcome, and gives details of all arrests, fires,
accidents and other occurrences of a noteworthy nature as soon as the
facts are telegraphed or telephoned from outlying districts.

Passing through the general office, Steingall entered his own sanctum.
A small, slightly built man was bent over a table and scrutinizing a
Rogues' Gallery of photographs in a large album. He turned as the door
opened, straightened himself, and revealed a wizened face, somewhat of
the actor type, its prominent features being an expressive mouth, a
thin, hooked nose, and a pair of singularly piercing and deeply sunken
eyes.

"Hello, Bob," he said to Steingall. Then, without a moment's
hesitation, he added: "Good-evening, Mr. Curtis--glad to see you, Mr.
Devar."

"Good-evening, Mr. Clancy," said Curtis, not to be outdone in this
exchange of compliments, though he could not imagine how a person who
had never seen him should not only know his name but apply it so
confidently.

"May we smoke here?" asked Devar, who had lighted a cigar on emerging
from the subway station.

"Oh, yes," said Steingall. "Make yourselves at home in that respect.
I am a hard smoker. Let me offer you a good American cigar, Mr.
Curtis."

"Thank you. Perhaps you will try one of mine. I bought them in
London, but they are of a fair brand. You, too, Mr. Clancy?"

"I'll take one, with pleasure, though I don't smoke," said the little
man. Seeing the question on the faces of both visitors, he cackled, in
a queer, high-pitched voice:

"I refuse to poison my gastric juices with nicotine, but I like the
smell of tobacco. Poor old Steingall there has pretty fair eyesight,
but his nose wouldn't sniff brimstone in a volcano, all because he
insists on smoking."

"Gastric juice!" laughed Steingall. "You don't possess the article.
Skin, bones, an