Jameson lurched toward the bartender. "Young lookin'? Red cheeks?

'Old himself like a sojer?"

"That's 'im," agreed the bartender.

"What were y' robbed of?" demanded Haggerty.

Jameson looked into a pair of chilling blue eyes. His own wavered

drunkenly. "Money."

"Y' lie! What was it?" Haggerty seized Jameson by the collar and

swung him about. "Hurry up!"

"I tell you, my money. Paid off t'dy. 'E knew it. Sly." Jameson had

become almost sober. Out of the muddle one thing loomed clearly: he

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could not be revenged upon his cabin-mate without getting himself into

deep trouble. Money; he'd stick to that.

"Who is he?"

"Name's Webb; firs'-class steward on th' Celtic. Damn 'im!"

"Lock this fool up till morning," said Haggerty. "I'll find out what

he's been robbed of."

"British subject!" roared Jameson.

"Not t'night. Take 'im away. Think I saw th' fellow running as I came

by. Yelled at him, but he could run some. Take 'im away. Something

fishy about this. I'll call on my friend Webb in th' morning. There

might be something in this."

And Haggerty paid his call promptly; only, Thomas saw him first. The

morning sun lighted up the rugged Irish face. Thomas not only saw him

but knew who he was, and in this he had the advantage of the encounter.

One of the first things a detective has to do is to surprise his man,

and then immediately begin to bullyrag and overbear him; pretend that

all is known, that the game is up. Nine times out of ten it serves,

for in the same ratio there is always a doubtful confederate who may

"peach" in order to save himself.

Thomas never stirred from his place against the rail. He drew on his

pipe and pretended to be stolidly interested in the sweating

stevedores, the hoist-booms and the brown coffee-bags.

A hand fell lightly on his shoulder. Haggerty had a keen eye for a

face; he saw weak spots, where a hundred other men would have seen

nothing out of the ordinary. The detective always planned his campaign

upon his interpretation of the face of the intended victim.

"Webb?"

Thomas lowered his pipe and turned. "Yes, sir."

"Where were you between 'leven an' twelve last night?"

"What is that to you, sir?" (Yeoman of the Guard style.) "What did Jameson take away from you?"

"Who are you, and what's your business with me?" The pipe-stem

returned with a click to its ivory vise.




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