SECRET SERVICE.
OLD AND YOUNG KING BRADY, DETECTIVES.

Issued Weekly—By Subscription $2.50 per year. Entered as Second Class Matter at the New York, N. Y., Post Office, March 1, 1899. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1900, in the office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. C., by Frank Tousey, 24 Union Square, New York.

No. 84. NEW YORK, August 31, 1900. Price 5 Cents.

The Bradys’ Race for Life;
OR,
ROUNDING UP A TOUGH TRIO.

A Detective Story of Life.
BY A NEW YORK DETECTIVE.

Van and Burke fought like tigers, but were finally overpowered. “You are trapped, my fine birds,” cried Old King Brady jubilantly. But at this moment Ah Ling appeared on the scene. The uproar had attracted him. With white, scared face he stared at the detectives.

CHAPTER I.
A MYSTERIOUS CRIME.

“Help! Help!”

This thrilling cry rang out upon the night air in one of the side streets of New York City.

The few pedestrians in the bleak, storm-swept vicinity paused and instinctively looked for the cause of this blood-curdling appeal.

Someone was in trouble.

That was certain.

But who was it and what was the nature of the trouble?

As usual, no officer chanced to be within call. Two men who were on their way home from business, however crossed the street with long strides and plunged into a dingy area.

It was illy lighted by a gaslight over the door of a wretched tenement.

No person could be seen in the area, but one of the men, whose name was Mortimer Smith, bent over and cried:

“My soul! This looks as if murder had been done!”

His companion, a merchant named Benjamin Hanks, echoed:

“Murder beyond a doubt!”

The snow in the area was trodden and saturated with blood. All the ghostly evidences of a crime save the body of the victim were there.

The trail of blood led to the door of the wretched dwelling.

The two men noted this, and for a moment seemed about to enter the dwelling. But Smith said:

“We had better call the police.”

“Yes.”

“Undoubtedly they have taken the body of the victim into that house.”

“That is true.”

“Let us give the alarm.”

These two well-meaning and worthy citizens started for an officer. They reached the nearest corner and found a patrolman just pulling in an electric call.

Upon their statement of the case the officer made it a hurry call, and then hastily returned to the area with them.

He tried the door of the tenement.

It was locked.

He pressed his weight upon the door and forced it in.

A dark hallway was seen. All was silence of the tomb.

Naturally the guardian of the peace hesitated ere entering the place alone and in the dark.

It was a rough quarter where crimes were of common occurrence.

But just at this moment the hurry wagon arrived with more officers.

A quick consultation was held.

The police captain at once surrounded the house. That is, men went to the alley in its rear while the place was entered from the front.

The two citizens, Smith and Hanks, were held as witnesses.

But just as the officers with dark-lanterns entered the tenement they were met by a sudden wall of smoke.

The crackling of flames was heard.

“Fire!” cried the police captain.

The word was echoed by the others. The inference was easy.

The criminals had sought to conceal the evidences of their crime by means of the flames.

The fire alarm was given and into the street now there dashed the fire companies.

Lines of hose were quickly run into the building and preparations made to subdue the fire.

Not one of the inmates of the place had thus far put in an appearance. Indeed, it seemed deserted.

But while the police had been hesitating about entering the smoke-filled dwelling, two men had joined them.

“Hello! What is wrong here?” said one of them, a tall, strong-framed man, dressed in a tightly-buttoned blue coat, old-fashioned stock collar and wide-brimmed slouch hat.

“Ah, Old King Brady!” cried the police captain. “Here is a case for you. It looks like murder and attempt to conceal it by means of arson.”

“Who has entered the place?”

“Nobody as yet.”

“Is anybody in there?”

“We do not know.”

“Humph! What are you waiting for?”

“The smoke is so dense that it is not safe. The firemen will soon have the blaze under control.”

“Bah!” cried Old King Brady. “By that time evidence of the crime will be missing. Come on, Harry!”

This to his younger companion. The officers were startled and the police captain cried:

“Why, Brady, you don’t think of entering that place?”

“Yes, I do!”

“Why, that is foolhardy. You’ll not come out alive!”

“No matter. It is my duty!”

“You must not attempt it!”

The man with the wide-brimmed hat laughed sardonically.

“Come on, Harry,” he said to his young companion, “this is work for us.”

“All right, partner.”

And then before the police could recover from their surprise, both plunged into the dark hallway and the smoke.

“Here, stop them!” cried the police captain. “They are going to their death.”

But it was too late.

The Bradys, detectives of the first class, and the best in the Secret Service, were out of sight.

The men in that police squad were what might be ordinarily termed brave men.

But not one of them cared to follow the two detectives.

But Old King Brady, Gotham’s greatest detective, and his protege and pupil, Harry Brady, knew that if the mystery was to be solved, great risk must be incurred.

So they plunged unhesitatingly into the burning dwelling. The possibility of death never deterred either from exact fulfillment of duty.

They dashed through the smoke and reached the foot of a flight of stairs.

As near as he could, Old King Brady located the fire.

He believed that it was confined to a point in the rear of the tenement and had, as yet, not extended beyond one room.

Each of the detectives carried a dark-lantern.

It could hardly furnish light enough to penetrate the pall of stifling smoke, but yet enabled them to find their way up the stairs.

Choking and gasping they made their way bravely from room to room.

The dwelling was humbly furnished.

It was plainly the abode of people of small means. It was dingy and meagre.

The Bradys looked for a clew to the supposed crime.

Suddenly Harry went down on his knees and focused his lantern on the floor.

He cried excitedly:

“Ah, here is the clew!”

A trail of blood marked the floor. In the trail lay a white handkerchief of dainty texture.

The detectives examined it closely. Harry gave an exclamation.

On one corner in ink was marked a name:

“Evelyn Grimm.”

This was the name.

It was a clew.

The detectives realized this. At once they began to follow the trail of blood.

They felt certain of a sure revelation of the mystery. The blood trail led to the door of a room at the end of the corridor.

This door was closed and locked.

What was beyond it, the detectives could only guess.

But in their mind’s-eye they saw the mangled remains of the murderer’s victim. So they threw themselves against the door.

And beneath their combined weight it gave way.

As it crashed in, however, they were met by an impassable barrier.

Flames and smoke filled the doorway and forbade their entrance. They were driven back.

In fact it now became a question of self-preservation.

The old building was like a tinder-box.

The Bradys seemed to be literally penned in by the fire and smoke.

There was no time to lose.

“No use, Harry!” cried Old King Brady. “We are beaten for just now. We must get out of here.”

The detectives reached the stairs. But escape in this direction was cut off. Flames were in their faces.

At the other end of the corridor was a window opening upon the street. The detectives made a rush for this.

They reached it just as the sash was carried away by a stream of water from the firemen’s hose. This gave the detectives a chance.

Drawing a deep breath of fresh air they felt returning strength.

Harry vaulted lightly over the sill. It was fifteen feet to the area below. The firemen shouted, but Harry dropped to the flagging.

Old King Brady followed.

In another moment they were safe within the fire lines.

By this time a great crowd was in the street, attracted in spite of the driving storm.

The firemen were badly handicapped by the snow, but yet fought their way bravely while the rickety tenement was being consumed.

The fire was not allowed to spread, but the tenement was reduced to ashes.

Then the crowd dispersed.

The detectives left the scene and returned to their lodgings for the night.

One thing was certain.

A tragedy had been enacted, which the flames concealed and the only clew which the Bradys had secured was the delicate lady’s handkerchief.

This alone could furnish the only suggestion to be gained in any way from the affair.

Whether it would prove a sufficient means for the complete revelation of the mystery or not, remained to be seen.

The detectives hoped it would.

CHAPTER II.
FOLLOWING THE CLEWS.

Fire had destroyed all tangible evidence of the supposed murder.

The Bradys were up against a hard proposition.

To evolve the truth from the matter as it now stood did not by any means seem easy.

Insurmountable difficulties had seemed to present themselves. All hung upon the single clew.

This was the lace handkerchief.

It was of delicate workmanship and had certainly belonged to a lady of refinement.

All manner of deductions could be made. It might be assumed that the victim was a wealthy woman, decoyed into a trap of death and for some unknown purpose murdered.

The Bradys pondered over the case long and deeply.

The ruins of the fire were visited.

An inspection seemed to verify the fact of the murder.

In the ashes there were found the bones of an unknown victim.

So nearly consumed were they that it was not easy to say whether they were those of a man or a woman.

But it was safe to assume the latter.

But beyond this, all was a wall of mystery. The detectives learned that the inmates of the tenement were an Irish family by the name of Roche.

They were honest working people and had been absent for the night on a visit to an adjoining town.

It was easily proved that they had no connection whatever with the crime.

Thus matters remained in statu quo when one day the detectives dropped into the office of the Chief of the Secret Service.

“Hello, boys!” called out the chief, in his cheery way. “What is the good word to-day?”

“We are up a stump,” replied Old King Brady.

“How so?”

“You know that mysterious Fifteenth street fire and murder?”

“Yes.”

“We can’t get a clew beyond this lace handkerchief.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed the chief. “Well, that is something. Let me see the handkerchief.”

Old King Brady placed a hand in his pocket for the handkerchief.

To his surprise it was not there.

“Oh, I recall,” he said, “I left that handkerchief in the room at our lodging house. Do you remember, Harry?”

“Yes,” replied the young detective. “That is the truth.”

“Then that is your only clew?” asked the chief.

“Yes.”

“To be sure it is a slight one. Was it a lady’s handkerchief?”

“Yes.”

“Then the victim was a woman?”

“We think so.”

The chief was silent a moment.

“Many a dark crime has been covered up in that same way,” he said. “Nothing obliterates the traces of a crime like fire.”

“That is right,” agreed Old King Brady. “The oddest thing of all is that the house was occupied by people who could have had no possible connection with the crime on account of absence.”

“Well, that is strange,” agreed the chief. “You cannot explain the dragging of the body into that house in particular?”

“Exactly.”

“It would seem that the perpetrators of the crime were acquainted with the fact that the inmates were away and that an excellent chance was afforded to cover up the murder,” said Harry.

“Ah, I see!” agreed the chief. “Altogether it is a baffling case.”

“There seems not even a shadow for us to grasp.”

The chief laughed.

“I’ll wager that state of affairs will not last long,” he said. “The Bradys were never yet defeated, and I’m sure this case will meet the fate of all others.”

“We shall do our best,” said Old King Brady.

“If you were not already engaged on this case I could give you another which would interest you,” said the chief.

“What is it?” asked Harry.

“Perhaps we can handle both,” said Old King Brady.

But the chief shook his head.

“I think not,” he said. “It is a case which will require the best efforts of a man, and could hardly be divided.”

“Let us hear it,” said Old King Brady, with interest.

“Certainly!” agreed the chief, as he turned to his notebook. “Here are the details.”

The chief glanced over his notes and then said:

“A mysterious disappearance. A beautiful young society lady and heiress, of Westchester, drops suddenly from sight. Not a clew to her whereabouts.

“Miss Evelyn Grimm, daughter of the late Theophilus Grimm, and heiress to a vast estate now held in trust by Napoleon Blood, her uncle, awaiting her coming of age, suddenly disappears. The uncle is frantic and has used every means to trace her.

“The only clew is a brief note of appointment, written in a masculine hand, with these words:

“‘Miss Grimm: I will be at the Union Square rendezvous at ten o’clock. Do not fail to meet me, for I have business of very great importance. D. B.’”

The chief finished reading the notes and then leaned back in his chair.

When he looked up he was startled at the expression on the faces of the detectives.

Old King Brady’s eyes gleamed like balls of fire.

“What’s the matter, Brady? You look excited!” exclaimed the chief.

“Well, perhaps I am,” replied the old detective. “I beg leave to ask you the name of that young lady?”

“I read it to you. Miss Evelyn Grimm.”

“Grimm?”

“Yes.”

Both detectives drew a deep breath.

“She lived in Westchester?”

“So the notes say.”

“And kept an appointment at ten o’clock Wednesday evening at Union Square?”

“It is believed so.”

“That was the night of the storm?”

“Yes.”

“Also the night of the fire and murder in East Fifteenth street.”

“That is so!” The chief gave a start. “By jove!” he exclaimed. “You don’t really think that—there is any connection——”

“Yes,” said Old King Brady, emphatically, “there is no doubt of it!”

“How——”

“The name on the lace handkerchief which we found in the burning tenement, bore the name of Evelyn Grimm.”

For a moment the chief sat in startled silence.

Then he whistled.

“Whew!” he exclaimed. “I never dreamed of such a thing. But—I can see it plainly now.”

“The two cases are one.”

“Yes.”

“We can easily undertake your case for you.”

“On my word, this is a surprise,” said the chief. “But this is light upon the mystery. We now know the identity of the victim.”

“Beyond a doubt.”

“It is easy to assume that the young girl was decoyed to Fifteenth street and foully murdered.”

“For what purpose?”

“And by whom?”

“That remains to be unearthed.”

“It must be done!”

At this moment the door opened and a clerk appeared.

“What is it, White?” asked the chief.

“A gentleman to see you, sir,” replied the clerk, handing the chief a card. The latter glanced at it.

Then he gave a start.

The name upon the card was:

“Napoleon Blood, Notary and Justice, Wall street, New York.”

“The uncle and guardian,” said the chief. “What does he want to see me for? Perhaps he has a clew!”

The Bradys arose.

“Wait a moment,” said the chief, “I want you to hear what this visitor has to say.”

“But—perhaps he will not speak if we are here,” said Old King Brady.

“We will fix that,” said the chief, drawing the wing of a folding screen across a corner of the room. “Get behind this and listen.”

The detectives obeyed.

In a few moments the door again opened and the clerk showed Mr. Blood into the room.

Napoleon Blood, uncle of the missing heiress, was a sharp-eyed, hatchet-faced man of not altogether prepossessing appearance.

He was dressed in dark clothes and had an oily, suave manner.

He bowed obsequiously as he accepted the chair proffered him by the chief.

“Well, Mr. Blood, what can I do for you?” asked the chief.

“Ah, if you could only give me a clew to the fate of my dear niece I would be forever in your debt,” replied Blood, in a psalm-singing tone.

The chief bowed.

“Then you have discovered nothing new?” he asked.

“Well, ahem! That is, I have a new theory.”

The chief affected interest.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Well, it may be only theory, but sometimes I think it fact. I do not wish to wrong the young man—but—you see young people will be foolish—and—I—of course, this is all confidential.”

“Certainly!” replied the chief in a mystified way.

“There is a young man in the case. His name is Allerton Banks.”

The chief noted down the name.

“He is a poverty-stricken clerk,” continued Blood, “but he dared to aspire to the hand of my niece. Of course I forbade the thing at once. My niece acted very rebellious and forward and I was obliged to be very peremptory with her.

“I suspect that young Banks made the appointment with her which the note indicates. They very likely quarreled. Probably he tried to induce her to elope with him. When she refused, he might have, in a fit of rage, killed her and dragged her body into the tenement.”

The chief listened to this statement silently.

He was silent a long while. His gaze was fixed on Blood so long that the latter became nervous.

“I am sure,” said the notary, “that this clew, if followed up, will yield an explanation of the motive. I would suggest that detectives shadow young Banks and even that his lodgings be searched. I am convinced he is guilty.”

“Is it so bad as that?” said the chief, quietly. “We will consider your proposition, Mr. Blood. We are glad to get all the hints possible.”

“And young Banks——”

“Shall be put under surveillance.”

CHAPTER III.
IN SLY JIMMIE’S PLACE.

An evil smile flickered about the lips of the guardian.

“Well,” he said, “I give you the hint. Make the most of it. I could have given it to the private detectives, but I thought the Secret Service safer.”

“That was a wise move,” said the chief. “The Secret Service is all that its name implies, absolutely safe!”

“When shall I expect to hear from you?”

“At a date as early as possible.”

“You know where my office is?”

“Yes.”

“Very well. Good-day!”

“Good-day!”

The door closed and Blood was gone. The detectives emerged from behind the screen.

“Well?” said the chief.

“Ahem!” said Harry.

“Humph!” exclaimed Old King Brady.

They exchanged glances.

“What do you think of that fellow?” asked the chief, finally.

“He’s an atrocious old scoundrel!” said Harry, impulsively.

“Well, I think so,” agreed Old King Brady. “There is a dark game underneath all this. Somebody has been fearfully wronged.”

“I hope you will get at the bottom of it,” said the chief.

“We will!”

“I wish you luck!”

The Bradys went to the door.

“Thank you!” replied Old King Brady. “We shall see you again when we have something worth reporting.”

“Good! I shall wait with eagerness.”

Then parting salutations were exchanged and the detectives went out upon the street.

It was natural for them to fall into the making of deductions.

Many an important fact is arrived at through the medium of deduction.

By a process of reasoning, therefore, the Bradys managed to hit upon what they believed was a true line.

To them it looked logical that there was an animus in the purpose of Blood in throwing suspicion upon the young clerk, Allerton Banks.

The detectives made searching inquiries.

They discovered that Allerton Banks was a young man of character and reputation beyond reproach.

No charge could possibly be brought against him.

Moreover, by inquiry, they learned that he could not possibly have written the note of appointment signed D. B., and that it was easy for him to prove a certain alibi.

All these things had their value and were given due weight by the Bradys.

On the other hand, investigation showed that Napoleon Blood was a crotchety, narrow-minded old usurer and that he handled the inheritance of Evelyn Grimm as if it was his own.

In fact, now that it was assumed that she was out of existence, the property was likely to revert to him as the next and only heir.

All these things the detectives quietly unearthed.

Thus they got a line upon the case and were able to form their conclusions.

“I can see only one party at the bottom of it all,” said Harry, “and that is Napoleon Blood.”

“Precisely!” agreed Old King Brady. “He is our man!”

“It is a gigantic black conspiracy.”

“Yes.”

“But Blood had accomplices.”

“Oh, yes. The crime that evening on Fifteenth street could not have been committed by him alone.”

So the detectives made their diagnosis. It was in order now to place Blood under close surveillance.

The detectives shadowed him persistently.

Wherever he went they dogged him and this resulted in bearing fruit.

One day Blood left his office in Wall street and made his way to Chatham Square.

Here there was a small bar-room known as the “Travelers’ Rest,” and kept by a notorious fence called Sly Jimmie Callahan.

That the eminently respectable Mr. Blood should visit such a place as Sly Jimmie’s, was odd, to say the least.

The detectives felt sure that at last they had a clew.

So they kept close behind the notary and followed him into Sly Jimmie’s place.

Blood kept his collar turned up and his hat pulled over his eyes as if to escape recognition.

He had hardly entered the place, however, when three men stepped up to him.

They were a trio of as odd-looking crooks as ever saw the light of day.

The detectives knew them in an instant.

“By Jupiter! The Tough Trio!” exclaimed Harry.

“Whew!” whispered Old King Brady. “When did they return? They have not been seen around New York for five years.”

This was true.

The three men were a trio of the most dreaded crooks Gotham had ever known.

But they had been absent from New York for years.

The tall, lantern-jawed fellow with the patch over his eye was Dick Burke. He was a cool, shrewd villain, and the brains of the trio.

The hump-backed, heavy-jowled fellow with the scar on his cheek was Dan Collins.

He was a cunning sneak thief.

The short, pudgy rascal with the leer and St. Vitus dance was Martin Van, as atrocious a monster as ever saw the light of day—a veritable Caliban.

It was not easy for this trio to disguise themselves.

They couldn’t conceal their identity anywhere, yet they were mysteriously elusive and always fooled the detectives.

They managed to perpetrate the blackest of crimes and yet cover their tracks so well that they could not be cornered.

The Tough Trio was an appropriate name for them.

What could the eminently respectable Mr. Blood be doing in such company?

What business could he possibly have with them?

This was the question.

The detectives, it is hardly necessary to say, were interested.

Yet Mr. Blood met the trio familiarly and as if they were old friends.

All drank at the bar and then withdrew to a table nearby.

The detectives in their clever disguise were not recognized.

They also sat at a table and pretended to sip the vile beer which the place afforded.

They regretted that not a word of the conversation reached them.

It was impossible to get any nearer without exciting suspicion.

So the Bradys were compelled to wait and be satisfied with the assumption that something of importance was being discussed.

They were content now to accept as a fact that their first theory was absolutely correct.

The murder of Evelyn Grimm was the work of Napoleon Blood.

The motive was the securing of her inheritance.

The Tough Trio were his hired tools.

It was a horrible thing to think of. The young girl decoyed by the note of appointment to the Fifteenth street rendezvous on that fearful stormy night in winter. The fearful murder and the burning of the tenement.

The work of fiends.

Such it was.

But the trio were capable of even worse crimes than this. The detectives were assured of this.

For over an hour the conference between Blood and the Tough Trio went on.

Then they arose and left the place.

It was now after dark.

Blood shook hands with each and left them. The detectives caught only one sentence uttered by Blood:

“They can’t beat us now.”

Old King Brady’s jaws snapped.

He smiled grimly.

“We shall see!” he muttered.

“Well,” whispered Harry, “what shall we do?”

“Shadow them.”

“The trio?”

“Yes.”

This they proceeded to do. The three villains now walked away toward the Bowery.

The detectives shadowed them from one place to another until long past midnight.

Then they turned into a cheap concert hall in Bleecker street, known as Dan Maguire’s.

The trio seated themselves at a table and sipped their beer.

Suddenly Burke arose and walked leisurely to the bar where the detectives stood, apparently engaged in drinking beer.

Burke went up to them coolly and said:

“How are ye, gents? Won’t ye have a drink with us?”

The Bradys were never more astonished in their lives.

“Eh?” exclaimed Old King Brady. “You have the advantage of us!”

“Have I?” leered the villain. “Well, that’s queer, for I know you!”

“You do?”

“Yas!”

For a moment the old detective was staggered. Harry was also dumfounded.

“Come!” continued Burke. “We’d like to talk with ye. Come over an’ sit down.”

“I—I can’t leave my friend, thank you,” replied Old King Brady. “It is evident you take me for somebody else.”

“Who are ye?”

“My name is Schmidt.”

“Oh!” said Burke, significantly. “I thought it was Brady!”

The Bradys were never more astonished in their lives.

It was certain that their disguise had been penetrated by the keen rogues and they were known.

Concealment was out of the question. Old King Brady saw that a bluff would be foolish.

So he said:

“All right, Burke. You’re dead onto us.”

“Certainly I am!”

“What are you doing in New York?”

“That’s my affair. What are ye shadowing us for?”

“Can’t you guess?”

“I wouldn’t ask if I could!”

“Well, we lay you up for the gang that burned the Fifteenth street tenement.”

Burke only grinned.

“That’s jest our luck,” he said. “Everybody lays things to us!”

“Well, not without reason.”

“Mebbe so! But ye can’t clinch us. Anyhow, come over an’ sit down, we want to talk with ye.”

Old King Brady looked at Harry.

“All right,” he said, “we’ll do it.”

CHAPTER IV.
THE PRIVATE DETECTIVE.

It was an unusual request made by Burke.

It was a strange thing for the detectives to sit at the same table in a friendly way with three men whom they meant to hang, if possible.

But life is full of anomalies.

And detectives certainly meet with queer experiences. This was one of them beyond a doubt.

The Bradys quietly seated themselves at the table.

Burke called for beer.

But Old King Brady said:

“Don’t order any for us.”

“You won’t drink?”

“No.”

“Ah, that’s odd!” said Burke, with bad grace. “Mebbe it would be to yer interest to.”

“We do not drink anyway,” replied the old detective. “Not with anybody except when absolutely necessary.”

“Well, all right. Now let’s get to the point. What be ye shadowing us fer?”

“I have told you once,” replied Old King Brady, quietly.

“Humph!” exclaimed Collins. “Do ye think we had anything to do with killing that gal?”

“Yes, I am sure you did.”

The trio exchanged glances.

Martin Van contorted his ugly face frightfully and said:

“So ye mean to haul us in, do ye? That’s your game?”

“That is just it,” replied Old King Brady. “I know that you are the hired tools of Napoleon Blood!”

“Ugh!” said Collins, in a gritty voice. “Whoever runs up ag’in’ the trio has a hard time.”

“Lots of ’em have tried it.”

“And they’ve paid fer it,” said Burke.

“It’s a fair warnin’.”

Old King Brady laughed.

“You are talking to the wrong man,” he said. “There’s nothing you can do or say will scare me. I mean to put you fellows in the electric chair.”

“Well,” said Burke, darkly, “that’s a declaration of war.”

“That is my duty!”

For a few moments there was silence. Then Burke said:

“Yes, it is!”

“An’ you make war on us?”

“Ye don’t know what ye’re doin’. No man ever run up ag’in’ us that didn’t get the worst of it. Nuthin’ kin save ye if we git after ye. Don’t fergit that. Ye’ll have a hot race fer life!”

“All right,” said the old detective, rising, “you understand me, and I understand you.”

“You are satisfied to let it go at that?” asked Collins.

“Yes.”

“Very well. You will know what it is to fight the Tough Trio!”

“And you will soon find yourselves in the meshes of the law,” retorted Harry. “Remember that escape is impossible. You are not for a moment lost sight of and whatever comes you are always within our reach!”

The villains laughed scornfully.

“Save your threats,” said Van.

“Make your peace with God!” advised Burke, coolly.

“You say you will hound us,” said Collins. “Why don’t you arrest us now?”

“Yes,” echoed Van. “You are so sure of our guilt, take us right in!”

Old King Brady smiled.

“Have your fun now,” he said, “you may not have the stomach for it later.”

“Well, why don’t you arrest us?”

“I am not ready.”

“Is that your only excuse?”

“Just at present.”

Old King Brady bowed very politely. Then he said to Harry:

“Come! Let us get away from here.”

The detectives left the saloon.

They had no idea of leaving the vicinity, though. Their purpose was to remain as long as possible in close touch with the villains.

If the truth was told, the Bradys were not at all sure of their case.

They had not the slightest bit of legal evidence against the trio.

What they were satisfied of in their own minds could never be proved in a court of law.

So they were baffled.

But the bull-dog tenacity of Old King Brady’s nature was never more evident than now.

Leaving the saloon they dodged into a dark doorway near and waited.

“Harry,” said Old King Brady in a low tone of voice, “that old Blood is a fiend in human shape.”

“Indeed he is!”

“We must convict him!”

“We certainly will do so.”

Just then Harry gave a start and nudged Old King Brady.

At first, unseen to both, a man with muffled features had been standing in the shadows of the doorway.

He now emerged.

As he came into the light he turned sharply and said:

“Gentlemen, I wish you luck, but you’re on the wrong tack!”

“Eh?” exclaimed Old King Brady. “What do you mean, sir?”

“You are tracking the trio with a belief that they are involved in that affair at the Fifteenth street house.”

“We are!”

“Well, you’re wrong. They are not the men.”

“Eh?” exclaimed Old King Brady. “What do you know about it?”

“I know it all.”

“Who are you?”

“I am Ralph Scott, detective, the same as you. I have the right clew!”

The two Bradys stared at the fellow.

“You have?” exclaimed Harry. “I would like to know what it is?”

“I can prove it, too!”

“That is best.”

“Well, I can tell you that the young cashier is the guilty man.”

“Do you mean Allerton Banks?”

“Yes.”

The fellow spoke positively.

The detectives exchanged glances.

“Look here, Scott,” said Old King Brady, “you’re not a Secret Service man.”

The fellow looked defiant.

“It isn’t necessary to be in the Secret Service to be a detective,” he snapped.

“Perhaps not. But what service are you in?”

“I have no ties. I am in the business on my own hook!”

“Private detective?”

“Yes.”

“Umph! What is your clew?”

“I got it through a man who is in a position to know all about the case.”

“Who is he?”

“That is my affair.”

“I can tell you who you mean.”

Scott looked incredulous.

“Well,” he said, “who?”

“Napoleon Blood, the uncle and guardian of the dead girl.”

The private detective started. His face flushed angrily.

“Eh? You’d better guess again,” he said. “Who told you that?”

“Is it not so?”

“I refuse to say.”

“Well, how much has Blood promised to pay you to convict the cashier?”

Scott looked angry and baffled. He glared at the detectives savagely. Then muttering he began to move away.

“Hold on!” said Harry. “Take a bit of advice before you go.”

“What do you mean?” demanded Scott, in a surly way.

“Better let this matter alone entirely. It makes no difference what you do, you’re going to get the worst of it. Old Blood will surely be found out.”

“You talk like fools!” growled Scott. “But just keep on and we’ll see who comes out best. I work for money, I do!”

“That is right,” agreed Old King Brady. “Nobody will dispute that.”

Scott went away in high dudgeon. The Bradys were much edified.

“It is easy to understand him,” said the old detective. “He is only a tool for Blood.”

“It is evident the old usurer means to put the young cashier out of the way,” said Harry.

“Very true.”

“I think it would be a good idea to see Allerton and warn him.”

“So do I. Ah!”

Old King Brady gave a great start. A man had crossed the street and now passed very close to the detectives.

It was Blood.

The detectives were, of course, greatly interested.

They watched the old usurer carefully. He entered Sly Jimmie’s dive.

“He has gone in to see the trio,” said Old King Brady in a breath.

“Yes.”

“They will tell him of our position in the case.”

“The old fellow will be put on his guard.”

“Just so.”

“By Jupiter!” exclaimed Harry. “I’d like mighty well to know just what their conversation will be.”

“Would it be safe to venture into the place again in another guise?”

“They would know us.”

“Well,” said the old detective, with sudden inspiration, “I think I have a plan.”

“What is it?”

“Do you see the alley on this side of the building?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I think there is a small window on a level with the ground. It is directly over the table where those fellows sit.”

“Indeed!”

“It is true. I remember seeing it. Now, if we can only creep in there and either open the window or remove a pane of glass, we ought to hear every word.”

“Good! Let us try it.”

The Bradys were not slow in undertaking this feat.

They crept into the alley and soon had located the window.

Here they made an agreeable discovery. It was not necessary to open the window or remove the glass.

Every word spoken by the villains below came up to their ears.

They were still seated at the table and Blood was with them.

The old usurer seemed greatly excited that the Bradys were possessed of a knowledge of his complicity in the crime.

“Curse them!” cried Blood, savagely. “I hope they do not know too much. Did you admit anything?”

“You bet we didn’t!” said Collins, angrily. “What do you take us for?”

“Well, it looks as if they might be an obstacle in our path.”

“Wall, you bet!”

“There’s only one thing to be done!”

“We’re waitin’ fer the word!”

“If the trio gets after them it’s all up with them.”

“You bet!” cried Van, with a fierce grin. “Say the word, boss. We’ll give ’em a race fer life. What’s the job worth to ye in solid money?”

“Ten thousand dollars!” replied the usurer.

CHAPTER V.
OUTWITTING THE CROOKS.

“Done!” cried Burke. “We are your birds.”

“It’s understood,” said Collins, “when the Bradys are safe outen the way you will pay us ten thousand in gold?”

“That is right!” agreed Blood.

“Then the job is as good as done!”

“They are a pair of foxes!”

The trio laughed in a blood-curdling way.

“Don’t ye fear!” said Burke.

“Well, it’s worth that to me,” said Blood. “Once they are out of the way the course is pretty clear.”

“Wall, it oughter be.”

“I fear nobody else.”

“Ten thousand in gold!” said Burke. “That will take us to Australia. The twenty thousand we got fer the Fifteenth street job will start us in business, all right!”

“Yes, and I wish you luck!” said Blood. “Make the work sure!”

“Did ye ever know us to fail?”

“Well, no!”

“Very well. Ye’ll see that we’ll take keer of them Bradys all right.”

“Look here!” cried Collins. “What be ye going to do with that young Banks, anyway?”

“I’m going to arrest him,” replied Blood. This interested the detectives.

“Arrest him?”

“Yes.”

“Ah! Have ye got the right evidence, think ye?”

“My man Scott, a private detective, has worked that all right. Some of the girl’s jewelry, and a lace necktie stained with blood will be found in young Banks’ room to-morrow. Also, there’ll be blood on some of his clothes.”

The trio laughed grimly.

“You’ll do!” jeered Burke. “If you’d join us this trio might become a quartette.”

At this there was a general laugh. Then Blood arose to go.

“All right,” he said in parting, “see that you do your work well by the Bradys. I’ll keep an eye out all the while.”

Blood left the place.

Then the trio also separated for the night. It was a peculiarity of theirs to be seldom found together.

The Bradys had gained the most valuable of information.

“We have got them solid!” cried Old King Brady. “We can now easily checkmate them.”

“What do you advise?” asked Harry.

“We must see young Banks at once.”

“So I think!”

“He must be put on his guard and the dastardly scheme of Blood’s frustrated. Then we will have sufficient against both Blood and the trio.”

“And arrest them?”

“Instantly!”

“Good! Nothing could be better.”

The Bradys left Sly Jimmie’s place. The air was crisp and cold, for the frigidity of winter had not yet passed away.

They did not attempt to shadow any individual member of the gang.

But they started at once for the lodgings of young Banks.

He roomed, while at work in the city, in Irving Place. The room was a specimen of the sort usually found in lodging houses.

As is usually the case in New York, Allerton knew none of the other lodgers.

He simply knew that a tall, hawk-eyed man roomed next to him. But he had never ventured a surmise as to the man’s character or identity.

The chambermaid had caught Mr. Scott, the hawk-eyed man, one day trying to fit skeleton keys to Allerton’s door.

But Mr. Scott profusely explained that he had got the wrong room by mistake and went into his own room.

All this the Bradys possessed themselves of very quickly after arriving at Allerton’s lodging house.

He was not in when they called, but they waited for him.

In due time he entered.

At once the Bradys introduced themselves and a pleasant conversation followed.

“I can assure you,” said young Banks, “the disappearance of my fiancee has been a dreadful blow to me. I have until now never given up hope that she might be found alive.”

“I fear there is no ground for such a hope,” said Old King Brady. “You will do well to preserve your own life from the same gang.”

Allerton was startled.

“Is that true?” he exclaimed.

“As true as can be. We have come to warn you.”

Young Banks was dumfounded. He listened to the story repeated by the Bradys.

“That is very strange,” he said, finally. “I cannot understand it.”

“Now, we must work sharp to beat Blood at his own game,” said Old King Brady. “Who could have access to your room here?”

“Only the maid and landlady,” replied Allerton.

“Unless your next-door neighbor picked the lock.”

“Do you think it?”

“It is likely.”

“I do not even know him beyond the fact that he is a private detective and his name is Scott.”

The detectives winked hard.

“Yes, yes!” said Harry. “Well, such fellows make no trouble in finding their way through any door.”

“Do you think it possible?”

“I am sure of it.”

“But what could he enter my room for?” asked Allerton.

“The answer we will give you speedily,” replied Old King Brady. “Overhaul your wardrobe. We must search every corner of this room.”

“You puzzle me!”

“Never mind. Do as I say!”

“Oh, certainly!”

The young cashier went through his wardrobe. To his horror a suit of clothes was found smeared with blood.

In the coat pocket was a bloody knife.

The detectives kept grimly at work. Other incriminating evidence was quickly produced.

The young cashier was aghast.

“I need only say,” he said, “that this is all very inexplicable to me.”

“Indeed?” said Old King Brady. “How did these bloody clothes come in your room?”

“I have not the slightest idea.”

“Do you mean that?”

“Yes, I do!”

“Are they not yours?”

“They are.”

“How did the blood come upon them?”

“I do not know.”

Young Banks was like one dazed.

“Gentlemen,” he said, earnestly, “I swear to you that I have committed no crime. How the blood came here is an intense mystery to me. Could anybody have placed it there to incriminate me?”

Old King Brady’s face relaxed.

“I’m glad you have come to your senses, young man,” he said. “Now you are getting near the mark.”

“Do you know that such is the case?” asked Banks.

“Yes,” replied Old King Brady.

Banks was amazed.

“All this is very strange and incomprehensible to me,” he said. “Can you kindly explain it all?

With this, Old King Brady gave succinctly the facts in the case.

Young Banks listened with surprise, horror and indignation.

“And it is true that Evelyn was foully murdered?” he gasped. “I have had hopes until now. Oh, this is too dreadful! And it is all Blood’s work?”

“Yes.”

“Then I swear that he shall be brought to justice. He shall hang.”

“That is just what we are trying to do now,” said Old King Brady. “And I think we are in a fair way to succeed.”

“I hope so. Oh, gentlemen, I place myself in your hands! What ought I to do under these circumstances?”

“Keep very quiet,” advised Old King Brady. “Officers will come here to arrest you and to search your room. Make no objection. Even let them arrest you if they will. Have faith in us. We will not see you come to harm.”

“Oh, heaven bless you! This is a terrible nightmare to me.”

“Do as we tell you and you will be safe!”

“I will surely do so!”

The Bradys now took their leave.

They carried with them the blood-stained clothes and all the evidences of the murder.

Thus the matter rested.

The next day officers went to young Banks’ room and arrested him.

The place was searched thoroughly, but not a trace of the evidence, supposed by Scott to be there, was found.

The effect of this upon the private detective it is easy to estimate.

However, the warrant demanded the arrest of Allerton Banks and he was taken to the Tombs.

The evening papers came out with a thrilling account of the arrest.

“The murderer found!” it read. “At last an arrest is made. It proves a great surprise, for the party charged with the crime by Detective Scott is no other than the lover of the missing girl, Allerton Banks.”

A long reminiscent account of the crime followed.

The Bradys read this with interest.

Then they caused an article to appear the next day deriding Scott and ridiculing the arrest.

The brief hearing before a police magistrate justified this.

There was no case whatever against young Banks.

The police justice at once discharged him and reprimanded Scott.

The Bradys now decided to act.

Their purpose was to make wholesale arrests. They would scoop the whole gang at once.

They believed they had plenty of evidence to convict all.

They had evidence that Scott had secured the room next to Banks for the purpose of effecting an entrance.

They had the evidence of the chambermaid that he had been seen trying to pick the lock.

They could show complicity between Blood and the Tough Trio.

They could also show a warrantable motive for the crime and altogether quite sufficient evidence to convict the gang.

So the Bradys went first to the residence of Mr. Napoleon Blood in lonely Westchester.

But he was not there.

“He has just gone to the city with Mr. Scott, the detective,” declared the servant.

And that was all.

Mr. Blood did not return. His good sense precluded this.

He had seen the handwriting on the wall and at once took measures to protect himself.

He was missing.

So also was Scott, the detective, and the Tough Trio.

CHAPTER VI.
SHADOWED.

With no one to appear against him young Allerton Banks was discharged as free of guilt.

Great excitement was created when it was known that a warrant was out for Napoleon Blood.

And the interest was at fever heat when it was learned that he had skipped for parts unknown.

The Bradys were deeply chagrined that their birds had slipped them.

They had not dreamed that they would skip so soon.

They regretted not having made the arrests earlier.

However, they were by no means discouraged or defeated.

They knew that Blood had money and would not be easily overtaken. But the Tough Trio could not get away so easily.

But events proved that this was not at all the purpose of the three toughs.

The Bradys were surprised to receive the following unique message.

It came by mail, being post-marked at Station E, and was written in a coarse hand as follows:

“Mr. Braddy: You hev opened the action ag’in’ us and we are on the deefensive. Pretty soon it will be the other way an’ we’ll be on the offensive. Mark it now, we’re goin’ to do you up. No man can stand ag’in’ the trio and you’ll be kept busy running a race fer life.

“You can’t take no step we don’t kno’ about and we’ll be hot on your heels all the while. You can’t sleep nites fer the knife will be at yure windpipe. You can’t leave the city or a bullet will drop ye. We’re watchin’ every move of yours and you can’t fool us. There’s no escape unless you make a race for it. Yures fer revenge, “The Trio.”

The Bradys read this message several times with curious emotions.

Then Harry said:

“On my word, partner, this is no joke. It means something.”

“I believe you, Harry,” agreed Old King Brady. “But our move is to keep ahead of them.”

“They mean to kill us!”

“That is so.”

“Then we have certainly got to capture or kill them.”

“For self-preservation if nothing else.”

“Yes.”

“It is literally a race for life. We must win.”

“We must.”

The detectives decided to give up their quest for Blood.

They knew that a false step now meant their lives.

It is no light thing to ponder upon that three elusive deadly thugs are seeking one’s life and waking or sleeping there is never a safe moment.

The Bradys were constrained to do a heap of thinking.

The problem before them was the worst they had ever undertaken.

Every step must be guarded, every move carefully weighed.

They knew that it was true that they were under the constant surveillance of the trio.

How to turn the tables and place the other gang under the shadow was the question.

They considered the matter of disguise.

Disguises are all right and in many cases a valuable aid to a detective.

But they are not infallible.

In a passing crowd or the glare of gaslight they will prove sometimes very effective.

But not always are they effective. The cunning crook penetrates the cleverest disguise with ease.

Every person has certain physical peculiarities which no disguise on earth can absolutely conceal.

The Bradys knew that they could not depend wholly upon disguise.

The detectives decided finally that their only way to baffle their murderous foes was to make a literal race of it.

They knew that the three crooks would make hot pursuit.

By keeping always just ahead of the trio they could be sure of safety and perhaps find a way of doubling and turning the tables on the foe.

“We will lead them a chase across the continent!” cried Old King Brady. “If they can catch us they may have our scalps. In the meantime we will try every kind of a decoy for them.”

The Bradys left their lodgings.

They had barely struck the street when Harry exclaimed:

“We are shadowed!”

“Eh?” exclaimed the old detective.

“I tell you it is so!”

“How do you know that?”

“I saw one of the gang slip around that corner.”

“If that is so we ought to be able to decoy him. Come on!”

The two detectives carelessly strolled down the street.

It was a crowded thoroughfare and they knew that no attempt would be made upon their lives here.

But presently they slipped into a dark alley.

Here they crouched behind some barrels. Each held a revolver in his hand.

If their foes came into the alley, the trap was ready and would be sprung.

The detectives watched very closely. Twice they saw their birds at a corner far down the street.

But they would not venture to accept the decoy.

Old King Brady was disgruntled.

“Confound them! They are too sharp,” he said. “What shall we do?”

“Give it up,” said Harry, laconically.

“It looks like it. Well, we would be foolish to go their way. Let us give them the slip through this alley.”

“Very well.”

So the detectives slipped away and into another street. Soon they were on Broadway.

“Aha!” said Old King Brady, triumphantly. “That’s the way to slip them. I think we can fool them yet, Harry.”

But the young detective clutched his arm and said: “Don’t you believe it. Just look across the street.”

Old King Brady was astounded.

One of the trio, Collins it was, stood at an opposite street corner.

He glanced at the detectives and then vanished down the side street.

“By Jupiter!” exclaimed the old detective. “That beats me! Where did he come from?”

“I tell you they are almost omnipresent,” declared Harry. “We can’t seem to turn the trick on them.”

“Well, we will!” cried Old King Brady, angrily. “We’ll catch that fellow. Stay here, Harry.”

With this the old detective darted across the street.

But search as he would, he could find no trace of Collins. Baffled, Old King Brady returned to Broadway. “Confound the slippery rascal!” he cried. “There must be a way to trip them up.”

“I have a plan,” said Harry.

“What?” asked the old detective, eagerly.

“Well, it may seem simple, but I think it will work. Go to an uptown hotel and register.”

“Well?”

“We will assume to go to our room. But in reality we will slip out by a rear entrance. Once the gang enters the hotel we will nab them.”

“But will they do that?”

“I think they will. Certainly they will leave nothing undone to encompass our death.”

“Very good!” agreed Old King Brady. “We’ll try your plan.”

“We’ll go to the Broadway Central Hotel.”

“Very good!”

“It is an old hostelry and does not depend altogether on elevators. There are rear stairs for us to descend.”

The detectives proceeded to carry out their plan.

Certainly it looked feasible.

They registered at the hotel, boldly, under their own names.

They prepaid their room as they did not have baggage.

Then they ascended by the elevator. They proceeded to the door of their room.

They entered and waited for the bell-boy to disappear.

Then they emerged and started for the rear stairs.

They reached a corner of the long corridor when some-thing like a chuckle came to their ears.

Old King Brady turned his head.

“By jove!” he exclaimed, aghast.

At the same moment Harry saw the cause of the old detective’s excitement.

Far down the corridor a man stood apparently studying the number on a room door. He seemed totally oblivious of the presence of the detectives.

It was Dick Burke.

“Great Scott!” exclaimed Harry, and said no more. The detectives looked at each other in sheer wonderment.

“What do you think of that?”

“I think I want that cuss!” said Old King Brady, starting for the crook.

But at that moment Burke stepped into a side corridor and vanished.

When the detectives reached the spot he was gone.

They made a quick search and went all over the hotel.

They made inquiries of bell-boys and other attaches.

But in vain.

It convinced them that they were truly up against a hard game.

The trio seemed possessed of a supernatural faculty for making themselves invisible at will.

Completely mystified, the Bradys sat down in the hotel lobby and tried to think.

It was a conundrum.

The foes were close upon their heels and could not be shaken off or decoyed. They were as elusive as the will-o’-the-wisp.

It was easy to understand their game.

They were waiting only a favorable opportunity for pouncing upon their intended victims. They were slow and patient as the Hindoo thug himself.

Old King Brady was all cold sweat.

“By Jupiter, Harry!” he exclaimed. “They certainly mean to catch us off our guard. What can we do?”

“There is only one plan.”

“Well?”

“We must make a race of it. Let them chase us. We will keep on the jump. At a favorable moment we will double back on our tracks and then—they are ours.”

“A good plan and the only one,” said Old King Brady. “They will pursue us. We are sure of that. We are not smart if we do not fool them in some way.”

So the plan was decided upon and action made at once.

CHAPTER VII.
THE RACE BEGINS.

The plan of the Bradys certainly looked logical.

To make a race of it was the only safe way. So they acted at once.

They did not even spend the night at the Broadway Central Hotel. Instead they took a car for the Grand Central Depot.

Here they bought tickets for Boston.

The plan was cleverly laid.

It was arranged to go on to Boston by the night express. When they arrived in the Hub city they would at once slip onto the next train back.

This would confuse the pursuers and place them on the defensive.

The Shore Line Express took them out of New York.

The Bradys kept a sharp outlook and were certain that none of the gang were on the train.

Consequently they felt elated.

“On my word!” exclaimed Harry. “I believe we have slipped them.”

“It looks like it,” agreed Old King Brady. “But I am not wholly sure. They have disappointed us several times.”

“That is true,” agreed Harry. “Yet I believe we will fool them this time.”

The Bradys made themselves comfortable in the sleeping car.

Just as they were about to retire, a short man with bushy whiskers and a tweed suit came into the car.

He occupied the section next to the detectives.

He claimed their attention at once, but neither remembered having seen him before.

He ignored them, however, and at once tumbled into his bunk. His snore could soon be heard above the rumble of the train.

In due season the Bradys also retired.

They slept soundly until at about six o’clock the train rolled into Boston.

The detectives had decided to stay in Boston during the day and take the night train back to New York.

Then they could assume the best disguise they had and perhaps shake their murderous pursuers.

They left the depot and made their way to a respectable Boston hostelry.

The weather was typical of New England at the time of year and was most bitterly cold.

When the detectives registered at the Parker House, the fellow-passenger in the tweed suit also registered.

He was assigned to a room, as were the detectives. Young King Brady noted the coincidence, but thought nothing of it.

But once in the room, a sudden thought came to Harry.

He instantly exclaimed:

“Confound it! You and I are getting daft, partner.”

“Eh?” exclaimed Old King Brady. “What are you driving at?”

“We are blind fools! Far from eluding the gang, we are only getting into their way.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you remember the man who slept in the berth next us?”

“On the train?”

“Yes.”

“Short man with tweed suit?”

“The very one!”

“Yes. What of it?”

“Well, we are blind. That fellow is Martin Van in disguise!”

Old King Brady gasped.

“Harry!” he ejaculated. “What do you mean?”

“It is true! I have placed him now. I knew he seemed familiar.”

“Nonsense! I can’t see any connection or any similarity.”

“You can’t?”

“No.”

“Well, I couldn’t at first. But after we registered, I went down into the wash-room. He was there as well!”

“Ah!”

“I passed by him and chancing to glance into a side mirror I had profile view of him. He was indulging in the St. Vitus dance and his features were all contorted.”

Old King Brady was silent.

He knew that Van had the St. Vitus dance. The coincidence was certainly suspicious.

He was thoughtful.

“I declare!” he finally exclaimed. “Perhaps you are right, Harry. Those whiskers did not look really natural.”

“No, nor are they. I tell you that fellow is Van!”

Old King Brady strode up and down the room for some time.

“Well,” he said, finally, “what ought we to do?”

“I see only one plan.”

“What?”

“Arrest him!”

“Of course! We could have done it at the hotel desk.”

“But we did not know him.”

“That is it.”

“He is very likely in his room just now. Let us work the surprise on him. Fate seems to have played this into our hands.”

The Bradys were elated.

Their luck in having probed the fellow’s disguise seemed likely to stand them in good stead.

But they knew better than to act too openly.

“Harry,” said Old King Brady, “we must proceed with due caution. You can slip out now and get an officer.”

“Yes.”

“I will go down and look on the register and get the number of his room.”

“Very well.”

“Then I will meet you at the Tremont street door. Do you see?”

“Yes.”

“Very good. The officer can go right up to his room. I will go up one corridor and you the other. Then we have him trapped.”

“Splendid!”

The detectives had laid their plan well. As a matter of fact, their surmises were correct.

Martin Van was in his room.

He did not dream, of course, that the Bradys had penetrated his disguise.

It was his purpose to follow them like a lynx and at a favorable moment strike one or both down with his own hand.

The officer secured by Harry carried out his part of the programme.

He proceeded to the door of Van’s room and rapped.

At first there was no answer.

Then a movement in the room was heard and a voice said:

“Who is it?”

“A friend on business!”

“What is the name?”

“Open the door and you will see!”

Silence ensued and the officer rapped again.

“Wait a moment!” said the occupant of the room. That was the last answer. The officer suddenly put his shoulder to the door and forced it in.

The Bradys came rushing up the corridor expecting trouble.

But there was none.

The reason was evident.

The room was empty.

A window opening upon a fire-escape was open. It was by means of this that Van had escaped.

“Quick!” cried Harry. “We must cut him off below.”

Downstairs dashed the detectives. As they reached the sidewalk they saw a man in a big overcoat turn the corner below into Washington street.

It was Van.

The detectives rushed after him. In the crowd, however, they lost track of their man.

Much chagrined, however, the detectives would not give up.

They went on at random.

Suddenly leaving Haymarket Square they turned into Portland street.

This is the street of livery stables. From the door of one of these stables they saw a cutter sleigh drawn by a spirited horse emerge.

One man sat in the sleigh.

“Great Scott!” exclaimed Harry. “Is not that Van?”

The same big overcoat and hat betokened that it was the crook. He looked back once and saw the Bradys.

His whiskers had been sacrificed.

It was easy to recognize him.

His face lit up with evil exultation and he made a contemptuous gesture with his hand.

“Hold!” shouted Old King Brady at the top of his lungs. “Stop or I will fire!”

The old detective’s revolver came out then.

But it was too late.

The cutter turned a corner and Van was out of sight.

The Bradys looked about for a means of pursuit.

“The stable!” cried Harry. “Get another team at once!”

Into the stable the Bradys rushed.

The proprietor stared at them.

“Quick!” cried Old King Brady. “Give us the best horse you’ve got in your stable. We will pay for him.”

“Who are you?” asked the stableman, suspiciously.

“We are Secret Service detectives.”

“Why, I just let a team to a detective to go to Lexington.”

“What!” cried Old King Brady. “Did you say to Lexington?”

“Yes.”

“Well, he fooled you. He is a noted crook and we are after him.”

“Look here, I can’t let my teams this way.”

“Enough of that!” cried Old King Brady, thrusting a roll of greenbacks in the man’s face. “Your best horse. I’ll buy him. Here’s his value as security!”

“The other fellow left a deposit, too. Do you mean it?”

“Yes, here is five hundred. If I don’t bring the team back you are paid.”

This was enough.

The stable keeper quickly brought out a flea-bitten gray horse. He was attached to a light sleigh.

“Do you know the Lexington road?” he asked.

“By Scallay Square and Brighton street to Cambridge and Arlington?” said Old King Brady.

“Yes.”

“I’ll find it. Thank you!”

“That’s the best road horse in Boston. You’ll catch your man before he gets there.”

“That’s what we want!” cried Old King Brady.

Then away in pursuit went the two detectives.

“If we can catch Van,” said Old King Brady, “we shall be all right. We will have only two bloodhounds on our trail.”

Highly elated, the detectives drove on. It was slow work getting out of the crowded streets. But finally they crossed the Cambridge Bridge and were out on a clear highway.

Then the horse was given a free head.

CHAPTER VIII.
AT THE ASYLUM.

The horse given the Bradys by the stable keeper was certainly a good one.

He dashed over the snow-covered road like the wind.

Sleighs were met and passed.

But yet nothing was seen of the sleigh which contained Martin Van. To be sure he had a long start.

But still the Bradys kept on.

Arlington highway was reached and then they turned up the historic thoroughfare, the route of Paul Revere on his memorable ride, and entered Lexington.

On the left was a historic tavern.

The minute men of olden times who had met here to resist the advance of the British column of invasion, had once drank their flip and toddy in this ancient house.

As the detectives dashed along the snow-bound thoroughfare, Old King Brady gave a start.

“Hello!” he exclaimed. “Luck is with us!”

In the tavern yard was a sleigh. It was the veritable cutter hired by Van in Boston.

“Now we have him!” chuckled Old King Brady, as he turned his horse into the yard.

The detectives threw the reins to a hostler.

Then they dashed into the tavern.

At a counter stood a man of plain, stern features. He was evidently the proprietor and stared at the invaders.

Old King Brady leaned over the counter and said:

“Where is the man who just came up in that cutter out there?”

The proprietor looked blank.

“He did not stop here,” he said.

The detectives were staggered.

“Are you sure of that?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know which way he went?”

“Yes, he took the Concord road.”

“Thank you!”

The Bradys rushed out and leaped into their wagon. They drove on at full speed for Concord.

They were soon outside the little town of Lexington.

The road to Concord is a hilly and difficult highway, particularly in winter.

Moreover, a blinding snow storm had commenced to block the roads. After going a few miles the detectives found that their horse was giving out.

“On my word, Harry,” said Old King Brady, “I am afraid we are bound to get stuck.”

“There is one consolation.”

“What?”

“If we are, Van is also.”

Night was at hand and darkness began to settle down.

The Bradys realized that it was necessary to get under cover somewhere.

They were averse to going back to Lexington.

Suddenly, after floundering a while in the snow, a dim light was seen in the distance.

“There is a habitation of some kind,” said Old King Brady. “I think we had better strike for it.”

“Very good,” declared Harry. “I will go ahead on foot.”

Slowly the Bradys staggered on through the snow.

After a while they passed through a gateway and drew up in the yard of a time-stained and weather-beaten old mansion of revolutionary style.

Lights shone in the windows of the old house.

Old King Brady shouted and two farm boys came out with lanterns.

“Reckon hyars some more storm-bound people,” said one of the boys. “Say, mister, what kin we do fer ye?”

“It looks as if we had got to trespass on you for the night,” said Old King Brady.

“Wall, ye’re welcome! Put yer hoss right in the barn.”

This was done.

The big barn doors were with difficulty swung back. Then as the detectives entered they were given a thrilling start.

Right in the center of the barn floor was the cutter which Van had driven from Boston.

The horse was in a nearby stall.

“By jove!” whispered Harry. “We’ve come up with the sharp rogue at last. He won’t slip us this time.”

“Indeed he won’t!” declared Old King Brady. “I say, my man?”

“Well, sir?”

“Where is the man who came in with this team?”

Both boys stared.

“Eh?” stammered one. “That team? Why, nobody came in with it.”

“What?”

“That’s so, sir.”

“Do you mean to say nobody drove in here with that team?”

“Jest so, sir! It came in by itself an’ nobody in the sleigh. I don’t know nuthin’ more about it.”

“And you don’t know where the driver of it is?”

“No, sir.”

The detectives were dumfounded.

It was a most astounding turn in affairs. For a few moments they were overcome.

What could it mean?

It was easy to assume that Van had deserted the team.

But where and why? Where was he now?

It seemed an altogether foolish thing for him to desert the horse and sleigh to go afoot such a wild night.

No man could hope to live long in such a storm.

Yet it seemed that he had done this very thing.

The closest inquiries by the detectives revealed nothing more.

The farmer’s boys could vouchsafe no further information.

The detectives were obliged to be satisfied with it.