“British subject!” roared Jameson.

“Not t’night.  Take ‘im away.  Think I saw th’ fellow running as I came by.  Yelled at him, but he could run some.  Take ’im away.  Something fishy about this.  I’ll call on my friend Webb in th’ morning.  There might be something in this.”

And Haggerty paid his call promptly; only, Thomas saw him first.  The morning sun lighted up the rugged Irish face.  Thomas not only saw him but knew who he was, and in this he had the advantage of the encounter.  One of the first things a detective has to do is to surprise his man, and then immediately begin to bullyrag and overbear him; pretend that all is known, that the game is up.  Nine times out of ten it serves, for in the same ratio there is always a doubtful confederate who may “peach” in order to save himself.

Thomas never stirred from his place against the rail.  He drew on his pipe and pretended to be stolidly interested in the sweating stevedores, the hoist-booms and the brown coffee-bags.

A hand fell lightly on his shoulder.  Haggerty had a keen eye for a face; he saw weak spots, where a hundred other men would have seen nothing out of the ordinary.  The detective always planned his campaign upon his interpretation of the face of the intended victim.

“Webb?”

Thomas lowered his pipe and turned.  “Yes, sir.”

“Where were you between ‘leven an’ twelve last night?”

“What is that to you, sir?” (Yeoman of the Guard style.)

“What did Jameson take away from you?”

“Who are you, and what’s your business with me?” The pipe-stem returned with a click to its ivory vise.

“My name is Haggerty, of th’ New York detective force; American Scotland Yard, ’f that’ll sound better.  Better tell me all about it.”

“I’m a British subject, on board a British ship.”

“Nothing doing in m’ lord style.  When y’ put your foot on that pier you become amenable t’ th’ laws o’ th’ United States, especially ’f you’ve committed a crime.”

“A crime?”

“Listen here.  You went int’ Lumpy Joe’s, waited till Jameson got drunk, an’ then you rolled him.”

“Rolled?”—­genuinely bewildered.

“Picked his pockets, if you want it blunt.  Th’ question is, did he take it from you ’r you from him?  I can arrest you, Mr. Webb, British subject ’r not.  ‘S up t’ you t’ tell me th’ story.  Don’t be afraid of me; I don’t eat up men.  All y’ got t’ do is t’ treat me on th’ level.  You won’t lose anything ’f you’re honest.”

“Come with me, sir.” (The smuggler was, in his day, a match in cunning for any or all of His Majesty’s coast-guards.)

Haggerty followed the young man down the various companionways.  Instinctively he knew what was coming, the pith of the matter if not the details.  Thomas pulled out his trunk, unlocked it, threw back the lid, and picked up an old leather box.