“The Captain is back, Mr. Shirley,” he exclaimed. “He's in the private office on a couch.”
“Good, then we'll take my friend right to him.”
The stranger was beginning to evidence uneasiness, and he turned questioningly to his conductor, with a growing frown.
“Say, what are you leading me into, Chief?”
Shirley said nothing but strode to the rear of the floor, through the door of Captain Cronin's sanctum. The old detective was covered with a steamer shawl, as he stretched out on a davenport. The young man observed the photographs around the room,—an enormous collection of double-portraits of profile and front face views—the advertized crooks for whom Cronin had his nets spread in a dozen cases. The handcuffs on the desk, the measuring stand, the Bertillon instruments on the table, all these aroused his suspicions instantly.
He whirled about, angrily.
Shirley smiled in his face. Then he addressed the surprised Captain Cronin.
“Here is our little telephone expert who arranged the wires for Warren and his gang, Captain. You are welcome to add him to your growing collection of prisoners.”
For answer the young man whipped out a revolver and fired point-blank at the criminologist. His was a ready trigger finger. But he was no swifter than the convalescent detective on the couch, who had swung a six shooter from a mysterious fold of the steamer blanket, and planted a bullet into the man's shoulder from the rear.
As the smoke cleared away, Shirley straightened up from the crouching position on the floor which had saved him from the assassin, and dragged the wounded criminal to his feet. The handcuffs clicked about his wrists before the young man had grasped the entire situation. Cleary and three others of the private force were in the room.