"This is my number, Mr. Davidson."
"Ho, there! John! Cabby!" The marshal rapped at the window.
"What was the number, miss?"
"Four hundred and twelve."
"Stop at 412."
"You have been very kind to interest yourself in one who is not known to you, Mr. Davidson. I should have been badly off without your assistance."
"Didn't do half enough," answered the marshal. "Glad to be of service. Call on me again. Here's Shagarach's address. Take my advice and look him up."
He had been writing on the back of a card while the cab-driver was slowing his team around in front of Miss Barlow's door. It read in a scrawl, rendered half-illegible by the jolting: "Meyer Shagarach, 31 Putnam Street."
Emily looked twice at the singular name. McCausland never failed to convict his prisoners. Shagarach's clients invariably escaped. What would happen if the two were pitted against each other? This was her thought when she mounted the dear steps of home and fell weeping into the arms of her mother.
The following morning a remarkable discovery was made on the site of Prof. Arnold's house. The burned district had been roped off and was guarded by policemen, owing to the danger from the standing walls and still smoking debris. But tip-carts had begun to remove what was removable of the wreck, and the work of clearing away the ground was already well under way. Sight-seers in great numbers went out of their course to pass the ruins, for the Harmon building was of recent erection and had been styled a model of business architecture.