“I remember reading of this affair in the court records,” he said.  “Judge Fowler and I were saying what a peculiar case it was.  Chris Holtzmann claims to keep a first-class resort, and I would hardly dare to proceed against him were it not for these papers, and you, Mr. Harrison.”

“You will arrest him at once?” questioned the gentleman.

“If you say so.”

“I do, most assuredly.”

“You are interested in the case?” queried the sergeant, as he prepared to leave.

“Only on this young man’s account.  He saved my little daughter from a horrible death this morning.”

“Indeed?  How so?”

“There was a mad bull broke into my back garden from the street, and was about to gore her, when this young man, who had been driven into the garden in the first place, came between and drove the bull out.”

“Oh, I heard of that bull.”

“What became of him?” I put in curiously.

“He was killed by a couple of officers on the next block.  He was nearly dead before they shot him, having received a terrible cut between the eyes.”

“Given by this young man,” explained Mr. Harrison.

“You don’t mean it!” cried the officer, in admiration.  “Phew! but you must be strong!”

“It was more by good luck than strength,” I returned modestly.

“Nonsense!” said Mr. Harrison.  “My wife witnessed the whole occurrence, and she says it was pure bravery.”

Five minutes later a cab was called, and we all got in.  I was not sorry to ride, for my long tramp from one place to another on the stone pavement had made me footsore.  I did not mind walking, but the Darbyville roads were softer than those of Chicago.

It did not take long to reach the Palace of Pleasure.

“Just wait in the cab for a minute or two,” said the sergeant to me.  “If he sees you first, he may make a scene.”

“Most likely he’s gone out,” I returned.

The sergeant and Mr. Harrison left the carriage and entered the building.

I awaited their return impatiently.  Would they get their man?  And would Mr. Aaron Woodward be along?

Five—­ ten minutes dragged slowly by.  Then the two returned.

“He’s not in the place, and no one knows where he has gone,” said the officer.

“He can’t be far off,” I replied.  “No doubt he and Mr. Woodward have gone off to look for me.”

“And where?” put in Mr. Harrison.  I thought a moment.

“The depot!” I exclaimed.  “He spoke about looking for me there.”

“Then we’ll be off at once,” returned the sergeant.

As he spoke, a familiar figure came shambling around the corner.  It was Sammy Simpson.

“Hello, you!” he cried, on catching sight of me.  “I want those papers back.”

“Why do you want them back?” I asked.

“You didn’t pay the value of ’em, didn’t pay enough,” he hiccoughed.