me to ’phone in my name and address . . .  Why?  Oh, because I heard you make a specialty of solving mysterious crimes that stump the police. . .  No, that’s not all.  I want to tell you that your rotten, lying, penny sheet is of no more use in tracking an intelligent murderer or highwayman than a blind poodle would be. . .  What? . . .  Oh, no, this isn’t a rival newspaper office; you’re getting it straight.  I did the Norcross job, and I’ve got the jewels in my suit case at—­’the name of the hotel could not be learned’—­you recognize that phrase, don’t you?  I thought so.  You’ve used it often enough.  Kind of rattles you, doesn’t it, to have the mysterious villain call up your great, big, all-powerful organ of right and justice and good government and tell you what a helpless old gas-bag you are? . . .  Cut that out; you’re not that big a fool—­no, you don’t think I’m a fraud.  I can tell it by your voice. . . .  Now, listen, and I’ll give you a pointer that will prove it to you.  Of course you’ve had this murder case worked over by your staff of bright young blockheads.  Half of the second button on old Mrs. Norcross’s nightgown is broken off.  I saw it when I took the garnet ring off her finger.  I thought it was a ruby. . .  Stop that! it won’t work.”

Kernan turned to Woods with a diabolic smile.

“I’ve got him going.  He believes me now.  He didn’t quite cover the transmitter with his hand when he told somebody to call up Central on another ’phone and get our number.  I’ll give him just one more dig, and then we’ll make a ‘get-away.’

“Hello! . . .  Yes.  I’m here yet.  You didn’t think I’d run from such a little subsidized, turncoat rag of a newspaper, did you? . . .  Have me inside of forty-eight hours?  Say, will you quit being funny?  Now, you let grown men alone and attend to your business of hunting up divorce cases and street-car accidents and printing the filth and scandal that you make your living by.  Good-by, old boy—­sorry I haven’t time to call on you.  I’d feel perfectly safe in your sanctum asinorum.  Tra-la!”

“He’s as mad as a cat that’s lost a mouse,” said Kernan, hanging up the receiver and coming out.  “And now, Barney, my boy, we’ll go to a show and enjoy ourselves until a reasonable bedtime.  Four hours’ sleep for me, and then the west-bound.”

The two dined in a Broadway restaurant.  Kernan was pleased with himself.  He spent money like a prince of fiction.  And then a weird and gorgeous musical comedy engaged their attention.  Afterward there was a late supper in a grillroom, with champagne, and Kernan at the height of his complacency.

Half-past three in the morning found them in a corner of an all-night cafe, Kernan still boasting in a vapid and rambling way, Woods thinking moodily over the end that had come to his usefulness as an upholder of the law.

But, as he pondered, his eye brightened with a speculative light.

“I wonder if it’s possible,” he said to himself, “I won-der if it’s pos-si-ble!”