I tracked them finally to an old and ruined brick building near the East River.
It had once been a sugar-house, but had burned out, leaving only its walls standing.
The remains of the building had been turned to advantage—its walls squared on top and roofed over, leaving a structure in some places one story high, in other places two stories.
It was for the most part occupied by old junk and chain men, and among them were several well-known to the police, and suspected of being receiving shops for the "swag" of the river pirates.
Was the Black Hole only one of the vaults of the old sugar-house?
Was it located here?
I would have given a thousand dollars to have been sure of this.
In the dead of night I again drew near this old sugar-house, and stretched myself out alongside of a big piece of dock timber that chanced to lie in a good position.
About two o'clock I heard footsteps approaching from the direction of the river, and when the persons drew nearer I recognized one voice as that of the individual whom I had thus far bamboozled.
The scent was getting "hot."