“I don’t know it, Boss.”

“Who was the man you robbed?”

“I don’t know.”

The chief arose quickly, and the prisoner cringed in his seat.

“I don’t know,” he went on protestingly.  “Don’t hit me again.”

But the chief had no such intention; it was merely to walk back and forth across the room.

“What kind of man was he—­a tramp?”

Haney faltered and thoughtfully pulled his under-lip.  The cunning brain behind the bleary eyes was working now.

“I wouldn’t call him a tramp,” he said evasively.  “He had on collar an’ cuffs an’ good clothes, an’ talked sort o’ easy.”

“Little, skinny man you said.  What color was his hair?”

The chief turned in his tracks and regarded Haney with keen, inquiring eyes.  The prisoner withstood the scrutiny bravely.

“Sort o’ blackish, brownish hair.”

“Black, you mean?”

“Well, yes—­black.”

“And his eyes?”

“Black eyes—­little an’ round like gimlet holes.”

“Heavy eyebrows, I suppose?”

“Yes,” Haney agreed readily.  “They sort o’ stuck out.”

“And his nose?  Big or little?  Heavy or thin?”

Haney considered that thoughtfully for a moment before he answered.  Then: 

“Sort o’ medium nose, Boss, with a point on it.”

“And a thin face, naturally.  How much did he weigh?”

“Oh, he was a little feller—­skinny, you know.  I reckon he didn’t weigh no more’n a hundred an’ twenty-five or thirty.”

Some germ had been born in the fertile mind of Mr. Birnes; now it burst into maturity.  He leaned forward in his chair and stared coldly at Haney.

“Perhaps,” he suggested slowly, “perhaps he had a scar on his face?”

Haney returned the gaze dully for an instant, then suddenly he nodded his head.

“Yes, a scar,” he said.

“From here?” Mr. Birnes placed one finger on the point of his chin and drew it across his right jaw.

“Yes, a scar—­that’s it;” the prisoner acquiesced, “from his chin almost around to his ear.”

Mr. Birnes came to his feet, while the official police stared.  The chief sat down again and crossed his fat legs.

“Why, what do you know, Birnes?” he queried.

“I know the man, Chief,” the detective burst out confidently.  “I’d gamble my head on it.  I knew it!  I knew it!” he told himself.  Again he faced the tramp:  “Haney, do you know how much the diamonds you had were worth?”

“Must ‘a’ been three or four hundred dollars.”

“Something like fifty thousand dollars,” Mr. Birnes informed him impressively; “and if you got fifty thousand dollars for your share the other man got a million.”

Haney only stared.

CHAPTER XIII

MR. CZENKI APPEARS