umber. I haven't forgotten that, have I?"

The time consumed in getting the connection seemed endless. Drew lifted
one damp sole from the floor of the booth and then the other. The
receiver's diaphragm clicked finally. "Hello!" he snapped. "Hello,
who's this?"

He waited a full second. "This Delaney?" he asked. "Who?" he added.
"Oh! you're the maid! Well get me Miss Stockbridge or Mr. Delaney. Yes,
Delaney. D-e-l-a-n-e-y!"

"This Delaney? ... No! ... Who?... Nichols? ... Harry Nichols? Hello,
Nichols! ... Is Delaney there?"

The big operative's voice sounded with a rasp on the wire. "What's the
news?" asked Drew. "What's that you've been telling Harrigan? Something
about a coffin? A coffin? What--a casket? A hardwood casket. I'll be
right up! I'm coming!"

The detective's olive face was the color of burnt pottery as he flipped
the receiver on the hook, thrust his knee against the door and charged
out of the booth and into the drug-store. He wheeled, turned his coat
collar up, drew down his hat and dashed outside as an astonished clerk
leaned over the prescription counter and stared after him.

The message that Delaney had sent over the snow-crusted wires, and
along the underground conduits, was laden with menace. It drove Drew
westward through the drifts like a man who had a whip held over him. He
crossed two avenues before he sighted a taxi. He charged after this,
sprang to the running board, and shouted into the driver's muffled ear.

"Drive like sin--full speed and more--up Fifth Avenue! I'll tell you
when to stop! The devils are not going to kill that little lady if I
can help it," he added, as he opened the door and climbed inside the
taxi.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

"THE CLOSING NET"

Night was falling upon the greatest city in the world. After night
would come the myriads of electric lights in the huge Broadway
signs--the surface cars creeping through the snow-fall like glow
worms--the muffled pedestrians and the chain-tired taxis, with their
well-groomed patrons, hastening to ballrooms, cabarets and theaters
more luxurious than any dreamed of by Lucullus.

Into the tide of this forming stream of wealth, Drew's taxi turned and
ground northward through the drifts. The detective had given no
definite address. He wanted the air of the Avenue for at least two
blocks, before he reached the Stockbridge mansion. He signaled as a
familiar corner came in view. He turned his overcoat collar up to his
chin and