Branniton had engaged four more private detectives, making eight in all, and had planned to have them scattered about the house. But that was the ordinary safeguard against ordinary jewel thieves, and had nothing to do with the Black Star. Branniton was not thinking of the master crook, either. His mind was upon the fact that he was gathering political influence by entertaining the two famous diplomats.
Late that afternoon, Roger Verbeck went to police headquarters for a conference with the chief and Sheriff Kowen.
"We can't do anything except have our men waiting and ready," the chief said. "I've received about a thousand reports from my men, and there isn't one of them worth the paper it's written on. They seem to think they've got to report something or get into trouble with me. The papers are right—the police are a gang of fools and court jesters!"
"Well, what can we do?" Kowen complained. "Did we get credit for getting on that crook's trail? We did not. The evening papers are roasting us because we didn't nab him. I'm getting pretty sick of this business!"
"We wouldn't be in this business if you hadn't been asleep and let that gang get the Black Star out of jail!" the chief reminded him.
"Wait!" Verbeck commanded. "Are we going to fight among ourselves? Is that a way to catch the Black Star?"
"What's the matter with Muggs?" the chief demanded.
"The chances are that Muggs is not able to do anything," Verbeck replied. "I can imagine that he is being watched closely since he gave me that little tip over the telephone; and I'm hoping that nothing worse has happened to him. Muggs, you may be sure, will help us if he gets the chance."
Nightfall found them still at police headquarters. They had sent out for something to eat. The police reserves had been gathered. Kowen had his deputies ready. The Black Star, they knew, might strike at eight in the evening, at midnight, at three in the morning. They had to be ready. Their one hope was to get a quick alarm, to reach the scene in time to capture the master rogue, or at least important members of his band.
The residence of Richard Branniton was a blaze of light. Guests were arriving—prominent men, beautiful women, bejeweled leaders of the city's society. An orchestra was playing in the ballroom. Men and women were greeting one another, laughing and chatting.