"Nonsense!" cried Hook, pushing his way boldly in. "I'm a detective officer, and have no time to waste in idle words. Your place was running full blast a moment ago, and but for what has just occurred would be running now. Shut that door."
The man obeyed.
Caleb Hook stood alone in the darkened saloon with its ruffianly-looking proprietor by his side.
Few men would have cared to place themselves in such a position, but his was a nature which knew not the meaning of the word fear.
Coolly striking a match upon the bar, he touched the gas burner above his head, and in the light which followed glanced around him.
He stood within a low groggery of the ordinary type found in this part of the city—there was nothing singular in its appearance at all.
He and the red-headed individual occupied the place alone.
"What's your name, my man?" he asked, at the same time carelessly showing his shield.
"Slattery," was the gruff reply, "and I'll bet it's good for more money nor yours."
"Very likely, but it may be good for less if you should happen to lose your license. Who was that old man with the basket of fish that just went out of here?"