"Why, yes!"

"Ha! It's hard work t' get it int' your heads that when y' see a man

running at this time o' night, in a quiet side-street it's up t' you t'

ask him questions."

"Thought he was chasin' a cab."

"Well, listen here. Till th' owner comes back, keep your eyes peeled

on this place. An' any one y' see prowling around, nab him an' send

for me. On your way!"

Haggerty departed in a hurry. He had already made up his mind as to

what he was going to do. He hunted up a taxicab and told the chauffeur

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where to go, advising him to "hit it up." His destination was the

studio-apartment of J. Mortimer Forbes, the artist. It was late, but

this fact did not trouble Haggerty. Forbes never went to bed until

there was positively nothing else to do.

The elevator-boy informed Haggerty that Mr. Forbes had just returned

from the theater. Alone? Yes. Haggerty pushed the bell-button. A

dog bayed.

"Why, Haggerty, what's up? Come on in. Be still, Fritz!"

The dachel's growl ended in a friendly snuffle, and he began to dance

upon Haggerty's broad-toed shoes.

"Bottle of beer? Cigar? Take that easy chair. What's on your mind

tonight?" Forbes rattled away. "Why, man, there's a cut on the side

of your head!"

"Uhuh. Got any witch-hazel?" The detective sat down, stretched out

his legs, and pulled the dachel's ears.

Forbes ran into the bathroom to fetch the witch-hazel. Haggerty poured

a little into his palm and dabbled the wound with it.

"Now, spin it out; tell me what's happened," said Forbes, filling his

calabash and pushing the cigars across the table.

For a year and a half these two men, the antitheses of each other, had

been intimate friends. This liking was genuine, based on secret

admiration, as yet to be confessed openly. Forbes had always been

drawn toward this man-hunting business; he yearned to rescue the

innocent and punish the guilty. Whenever a great crime was committed

he instantly overflowed with theories as to what the criminal was

likely to do afterward. Haggerty enjoyed listening to his patter; and

often there were illuminating flashes which obtained results for the

detective, who never applied his energies in the direction of logical

deduction. Besides, the chairs in the studio were comfortable, the

imported beer not too cold, and the cigars beyond criticism.

Haggerty accepted a cigar, lighted it, and amusedly watched the eager

handsome face of the artist.

"Any poker lately?"




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