e has had a rather trying wait, but I couldn't help that,
could I?"

"We give you best," growled McCulloch. "Did you stiffen him with the
half brick, then, that you were able to hunt around for a rope?"

"That helped some, but I also remarked that, if he moved, this toy of
his would surely go off by accident, and he seemed to think it might
hurt."

McCulloch held the lamp close to the livid, twisted face.

"Is this Anatole?" he said suddenly.

"Yes," said Curtis, with instant appreciation of his adroitness.

They were rewarded by the scowl which convulsed the mask-like face, and
terror set its unmistakable seal there. A harsh metallic voice came
from the huddled-up form.

"Cut this d--d rope, and let me stand on my feet!"

"There's no special hurry," said the policeman coolly. "We won't
object to making things more pleasant for you if you promise to take us
straight to your Hungarian friends."

Again that wave of dread which betokens the quailing heart of the
detected felon swept over the man's features, but he only swore again,
and protested that they had no right to torture him.

McCulloch saw that he had to deal with a hardened criminal, from whom
no conscience stricken confession would be forthcoming. He gave the
lamp to Curtis, stooped, and lifted the prisoner out on to the ground.
Untying the rope, except at the man's ankles, he brought the listless
hands in front, and placed a pair of handcuffs on the wrists.

"Now," he said, "if you have any sense left, you'll keep quiet and
enjoy the ride back to New York."

"Why am I arrested? I have a right to know?" The words were yelped at
him rather than spoken.

"All in good time, Anatole. You'll have everything explained to you
fair and square."

"That is not my name. That's a Frenchman's name."

"It fitted you all right in 27th Street a few hours ago."

"I was not there. I can prove it."

"Of course you can. You'd be a poor sort of crook if you couldn't.
But what's this?" the roundsman had found some letters and a pocketbook
in an inner pocket of the chauffeur's closely buttoned jacket--"M.
Anatole Labergerie, care of Morris Siegelman, saloon-keeper, East
Broadway, N. Y.," he said. "You know someone named Anatole, anyhow, so
we are warm, as the kids say," he went on sarcastically.

"I say nothing. I admit nothing. I demand the presence of a lawyer,"
was the defiant reply.

"You'll see a heap of lawyers before the State of New York ha