Active as he always kept himself, the old detective sprang back out of the way.  But fate, in the person of a small boy, had just a little while before, dropped a banana skin on the streets.  And the colonel stepped squarely on this peeling, as he tried to retreat.

There was a sudden sliding, an endeavor to retain his footing, and then Colonel Ashley fell prostrate, his fishing rod pieces spinning from his fingers.  Down he went, and the truck thundered straight at him.

It was almost upon him, and the big, solid, front tires were about to crush him, in spite of the frantic efforts of the driver to swerve his machine to one side, when a slim figure dashed from the crowd on the sidewalk, and, with an indistinguishable cry, seized the colonel by the shoulders, fairly dragging him with a desperate burst of strength from the very path of death.

There were gasps of alarm and sighs of relief.  The driver of the truck swore audibly, but it was more a prayer than an oath.  The colonel, grimy and muddy, was set on his feet by his rescuer, and several men gathered about.  The colonel was a bit-dazed, but not so much so that he could not hear several murmur: 

“He saved his life all right!”

Recovering his breath and the control of his nerves at about the same time, the detective, his voice trembling in spite of himself, turned to the man who had dragged him from almost under the big wheels and said: 

“Sir, you did save my life!  You saved me from a horrible death, and saying so doesn’t begin to thank you or tell you what I mean.  If you’ll have the goodness, sir, to call a taxi for me, and come with me to my hotel, I can then—­”

The colonel came to a halting and sudden pause as he saw the face of the slim little man who had saved him—­a face covered with freckles, which were splotched over the cheeks, the turned-up nose, and reaching back to the wide-set ears.

“Spotty!—­Spotty Morgan!” gasped the detective, as he recognized a New York gunman, who was supposed to have more than one killing to his credit, or debit, according as you happen to reckon.

“Spotty Morgan!  You—­you—­here!” gasped the detective.

The rescuer, who had been grinning cheerfully, went white under his copper freckles.

“My gawd!  It’s you!  Colonel—­”

Further words were stopped by the detective’s hand placed softly, quickly, and so dexterously as hardly to be seen by those in the crowd, over the mouth of the speaker.

“No names—­here!” whispered the colonel in the big ear of the man who had saved him from death.

The slim little man gave a wiggle like an eel, and would have darted away through the crowd, but there was a vice-like grip on his shoulder that he knew but too well.

“Spotty, my name’s Brentnall for the present,” said the colonel, with a grim smile.  “And you’d better come with me.  How about it?”