ing for the first time since he had
entered the station-house, and addressing Steingall.

"I thought I was going to fail, but I stuck to my guns, and it came
off," was the modest if rather cryptic reply.

"We, too, have fought with beasts at Ephegus, so let us into this,"
cried Devar. "What came off, and where was the risk of failure? To my
mind, you had Lamotte in a double Nelson grip all the time."

"That's where you are in error, young man," said Steingall cheerfully.
"Sometimes it pays to pretend a knowledge you don't possess, and this
was one of the occasions. Mr. Clancy and I knew that somewhere in New
York were two Hungarians named Gregor Martiny and Ferdinand Rossi. We
knew that they were the men who killed Mr. Hunter, but we had no more
notion where they were hiding, or how to lay hands on them, than the
man in the moon."

"Great Scott. Haven't you arrested them?"

"No, sir. That is a pleasure deferred."

"Do you mean that you wanged that address out of the Frenchman?"

"That's about the size of it. I might have searched for a week for
Martiny and Rossi, but no one in East Broadway would have owned up to
seeing or even hearing of them."

"Still, you had their names pat?"

"Yes," said the detective, cutting the end off a cigar, "we had their
names, and we ascertained why they killed Hunter, or would have killed
any other person who tried to balk their scheme, but our information
stopped there."

Steingall, usually so communicative, evidently meant to keep to himself
the source of his inspiration, and, in a few minutes, Brodie was
driving the four men to the Police Headquarters.

They went to the Detective Bureau, and Steingall telephoned the Clinton
Street police station-house.

"You know De Silva's place in Market Street?" he said. "Well, within
ten minutes have half-a-dozen men gather quietly near the door. . . .
Two others should watch the back, and stop anyone making a bolt that
way. . . . Yes, of course, there may be shooting. I'll turn up in a
private auto, and stop off at the corner of East Broadway. . . . Leave
the rest to Clancy and myself. . . . No, only two, but they're hot
stuff."

He unlocked a drawer in a desk, and took out a pair of revolvers.
After examining them to make sure they were fully loaded, he handed one
to Clancy.

"I hope we shall not require them, Eugene, but there's no telling," he
said.

"I suppose I'm not allowed to shoot anybody, so you might lend m