nds of hesitation the three men gave chase. It
was the make of the man, his motion as he started to run, the running
itself as Champney took the middle of the street, by which Father Honore
marked him. It was just such a start, just such running, as the priest
had seen many a time on the football field when the goal, which should
decide for victory, was to be made. He recognized it at once.

"That's he!" He spoke under his breath to the two men; the three started
in pursuit.

But Champney Googe was running to goal, and the old training stood him
in good stead. He was across Second Avenue before the men were half way
down Tenth Street; down Eighth Street towards East River he fled, but at
First he doubled on his tracks and eluded them. They lost him as he
turned into Second Avenue again; not a footstep showed on the
ice-coated pavement. They stopped at a telephone station to notify the
police at the Brooklyn Bridge terminals, then paused to draw a long
breath.

"You're sure 't was him?" One of the detectives appealed to Father
Honore.

"Yes, I'm sure."

"He give us the slip this time; he knew we was after him," the other
panted rather than spoke, for the long run had winded him. "I never see
such running--and look at the glare of ice! He'd have done me up in
another block."

"Well, the hunt's up for to-night, anyway. There's no use tobogganning
round after such a hare at this time of night," said the other, wiping
the wet snow from the inside of his coat collar.

"We've spotted him sure enough," said the first, "and I think, sir, with
due notifications at headquarters for all the precincts to-night, we can
run him down and in to-morrow. If you've no more use for me, I'll just
step round to headquarters and get the lines on him before
daylight--that is, if they'll work." He looked dubiously at the sagging
ice-laden wires.

"You won't need me any longer?" The second man spoke inquiringly, as if
he would like to know Father Honore's next move.

"I don't need you both, but I'd like one of you to volunteer to keep me
company, for a while, at least. I can't give up this way, although I
know no more of his whereabouts than you do. I've a curious unreasoning
feeling that he'll try the ferries next."

"He can't get at the bridge--we've headed him off there, and it's a bad
night. It's been my experience that this sort don't take to water, not
naturally, on such nights as this. We might try one of the Bowery
lodging h