The voice was that of little Jimmy Eames, the most tireless and persistent member of the force of news hounds employed by the paper.
"Where?" Feehan was as calm as if only recording a fly out.
"North Ninetieth Street Police Station," said Eames rapidly. "I picked up a clue over on the other side of the city—inside police dope. Man taken there last night in taxi. I'm off for there."
Feehan pocketed his statistics and prepared for action. His voice had ceased to drag. He uttered commands in sharp, quick words. Briefly he detailed to each man as he called on the telephone the nature of Eames's discovery. "Get to North Ninetieth Street Station."
Thirty-five minutes after Eames flashed the first word to the office, Cramer, the star police reporter, announced over the telephone.
"McCarthy is in the black hole at North Ninetieth street. Orders from captain. No one permitted to see him. Not booked. Sergeant in charge don't know what he is accused of."
"Get him out. Report in ten minutes."
"Two hours and a half to get him out and put him on that train," Feehan muttered.
It was twelve minutes before Cramer called again.
"Sergeant says he dares not turn the fellow loose. Don't know he is McCarthy. Says orders are strict to keep him and to keep everyone away from him."