Should he stick to the Russian’s trail, a course which might lead to his death, or should he take the diamonds to a customs office and turn them in as smuggled goods, then tell Hanada he was off the hunt, was going back to his old job and Mazie?  That would be a very easy thing to do; and to stick was fearfully hard.  Yet the words of his long time friend, “Get that man, or it will be worse for your country and mine,” still rang in his ears.  Was it his patriotic duty to stick?

And if he decided to go on with it, should he go to Hanada and ask for a showdown, all cards on the table; or should he trust him to reveal the facts in the case little by little or all at once, as seemed wise to him?  Well, he should see.

Then, for a half hour, Johnny gave himself over to the wild, boyish reveries which the city air and the lights flickering on the water awakened.  At the end of that half hour he put on his hat and went out.  He was to meet Hanada on the Wells street bridge.  Where the Japanese was staying he did not know, but that it was with some fellow countrymen he did not doubt.  Cio-Cio-San was staying with friends, students at the University.  It had been arranged that the three of them should meet at odd times and various places to discuss matters relating to their dangerous mission.  In this way they hoped to throw members of the band of Radicals off their tracks.

Their conversation that night came to little.  Hanada had found no trace of the Russian, nor had he come into contact with any other important Radicals since reaching Chicago.  Johnny’s report was quite as brief.  Hanada showed no inclination to reveal more regarding the matter, and Johnny did not question him.  He had fully determined to see the thing through, cost what it might.

It was after a roundabout walk through the deserted streets of the business section of the city that they came to South Water street.  This street, the noisiest and most crowded of all Chicago at certain hours, was now as silent and deserted as a village green at midnight.  Here a late pedestrian hurried down its narrow walk:  there some boatman loitered toward his craft in the river.  But for these the street was deserted.

And it was here, of all places, that they experienced the first thrill of the night.  A heavy step sounded on the pavement around the corner.  The next instant a man appeared walking toward them.  His face was obscured by shadows, but there was no mistaking that stride.

“That’s our man,” whispered Johnny.

“The Russian?” questioned Hanada in equally guarded tones.

There was not time for another word, for the man, having quickened his pace was abreast of them, past them and gone.

“I don’t know.  Couldn’t see his face,” whispered the Jap.

“Quick!” urged Johnny; “there’s a short cut, an alley.  We can meet him again under the arc light.”

Down a dark alley they dashed.  Crashing into a broken chicken crate, then sprinting through an open court, they came out on another alley, and then onto a street.