The detective called to the man in the check suit to halt, but instead of obeying he started to run.

But he had not gone more than ten feet when he was seized by the detective, and was dragged back to the corner.

“Take him to the box, Casey,” said the detective, turning his prisoner over to the policeman.

At that moment the two detectives were joined by a third, and they entered into an earnest conversation, drawn closely together and looking over their shoulders occasionally in the direction of the house into which the man in the checked suit was about to enter when arrested.

“I have stumbled right into it,” said Ted to himself.  “The check-suit man is the spy for the train robbers, and their headquarters are in that house.  The detectives are going to raid it, and I’m in on it.  This certainly is lucky.”

He was glad now that he had not waited for Bud.

The three detectives moved slowly down the street, The policeman stood on the corner holding his man, waiting for the patrol wagon.

The scene was vividly impressed on Ted’s mind, for it had happened so quickly, so easily, so quietly, and not at all like his own strenuous times when he had gone after desperadoes in his capacity of deputy marshal.

The detectives did not notice that they were being followed by a youth, and it is doubtful if they would have paid any attention to him if they had.

The foot of the first detective was on the lower step of the stairway leading to the door of the suspected house when suddenly a shrill whistle cut the air from the direction of the corner, and Ted turned to see the policeman strike the man in the check suit a blow with his club.

“Curse him, he’s tipped us off,” said the detective.  “Come on, we’ve got to rush them now.”

Quickly the three sprang up the steps, threw the door open, and entered a long hall.

“Back room,” said one.

Ted was following them as closely as he could without being noticed and warned away.

He saw a big, fine-looking policeman entering by a back door.

“That’s it,” said one of the detectives, motioning to a door.

The policeman walked boldly to the door and threw it open.

As he did so a shot rang out, and the policeman staggered back and fell, a crimson stain covering his face.

He was dead before he struck the floor.

Without a word, the three detectives ran to the door, and within a moment or two at least fifteen shots were fired within the room.

They were so many and so close together that it sounded like a single crash.  Then there was silence for a few moments, followed by a few desultory shots which seemed to pop viciously after the crash that had gone before.

It all happened so suddenly that Ted had hardly time to think, and stood rooted to the spot until he was aroused by the cry of “Help!” in a feeble voice, and, drawing his revolver, he sprang into the room.