"There's Slippery Al, Surly Bob, Gentleman Jim, Fly Cummings, Joe Cuthbert, Eugene Maxwell, and The Parson. Oh, and there's Scar-faced Johnny; I forgot him. Now, I'll leave it to you, Carter, if that ain't a likely bunch."
"And they were all in the room downstairs to-night," murmured the detective meditatively.
"What!" exclaimed the bartender in astonishment, "do you mean to say that you have been inside that saloon to-night?"
"Certainly."
"Would you mind telling me how you got there?"
"Never mind all that, Phil. That is not what I am here for—to explain things to you. Do you know where Black Madge lives, or where she can be found besides in this saloon?"
"I don't know anything about her more than I've told you."
The detective looked around the room for a moment, and discovered that one of its articles of furniture was a tall, old-fashioned pier glass, which reflected the full length of a person who stood before it. Then he turned around and commanded the bartender to stand on his feet, studied his appearance carefully, and then he shook his head.
"It won't do," he muttered.
"What won't do?" asked Phil.