Next she called up Barney, who had been waiting near a telephone in expectation of news of the result of her second visit to the home of Dick Sherwood.  To Barney she said that she had the greatest possible news—­news which would require immediate action—­and that he should be at her suite at nine o’clock prepared to play his part at once in the big proposition that had just developed, and that he should get word to Old Jimmie to follow him in a few minutes.

Within fifteen minutes a taxicab had whirled her down to Police Headquarters and she was in the office where three months earlier Larry had been grilled after his refusal of the license to steal and cheat on the condition that he become a police stool.  Barlow, who was alone in the room, looked up with a scowl from a secret report he had secured of the activities of detectives in the District Attorney’s office.  Although Maggie was pretty and stylishly dressed, Barlow did not rise nor did he remove the big cigar he had been viciously gnawing.  It is the tradition of the Police Department, the most thoroughly respected article of its religion, that a woman who is seen in Police Headquarters cannot by any possibility be a lady.

“Well, what’s on your chest?” he grunted, not even asking her to be seated.

It was suddenly Maggie’s impulse—­sprung perhaps out of unconscious memory of what Larry had suffered—­to inflict upon herself the uttermost humiliation.  So she said: 

“I’ve come here to offer myself as a stool-pigeon.”

“What’s that?” Barlow exclaimed, startled.  It was not often that a swell lady—­who of course couldn’t be a swell (he did not know who Maggie was)—­voluntarily walked into his office with such a proposition.

“I can give you some real information about a big game that’s being worked up.  In fact, I can arrange for you to be present when the game is pulled off, and you can make the arrests.”

“Who are the people?” he asked brusquely.

Maggie knew it would be fatal to mention Barney or Old Jimmie, if that story about Barlow’s protection contained any truth.  Again inspiration, or incredibly swift thinking, came to her aid, and with sure touch she twanged one of Barlow’s rawest and most responsive nerves.

“Larry Brainard is behind it all.  He’s been doing a lot of things on the quiet these last few months.  Here is where you can get his whole crowd.”

“Larry Brainard!”

Maggie did not yet know what had befallen Larry, and Gavegan had neglected to telephone his Chief of the arrest.  Even had Gavegan done so, the large and vague manner in which Maggie had stated the situation would have stirred Barlow’s curiosity.

“All right.  I’ll put a couple of my good men on the case.  Where shall I send ’em?”

“A couple of your good men won’t do.  I want only one of your good men—­and that man is yourself.”

“Me!” growled Barlow.  “What kind of floor-walker d’you think I am?  I’m too busy!”