One was Billy Cutts, the other P. Slattery, the proprietor of the saloon, whose fiery shock of hair betrayed his identity at a glance.
"All O. K., Pat?" said Callister, in a whisper.
"You're right, it is; run him down, an' I'm wid yez in a jiffy. Begobs! if it ain't that fly detective what shook me up on the Sunday morning poor Mrs. Marley was murdered—an' phat ails you, Mister Tisdale? Howly Mother, but you're as white as though you'd seen a ghost!"
"Hold your jaw and lead the way!" muttered the burglar, fiercely.
Slattery made no attempt at reply.
Running down the cellar steps, he motioned to the others to follow without a word.
No sooner had they entered than he closed and locked the door, and producing a match, lit a lantern which he held in his hand.
"This way, gents," he said, briefly, advancing through the cellar among a heterogeneous mass of barrels and boxes and rubbish of all kinds.
Dragging the body of the detective between them, the others followed.
Suddenly the man Slattery paused, and stooping down, seized a great iron ring in the floor.