The man lost his balance, and as he fell forward and caught himself, Kennedy calmly and deliberately slapped him on the nose.

It was an intensely serious instant, yet I actually laughed.  The man’s nose was quite out of joint, even from such a slight blow.  It was twisted over on his face in the most ludicrous position imaginable.

“The next time you try that, Forbes,” remarked Kennedy, as he pulled the piece of paraffin from his pocket and laid it on the table with the other exhibits, “don’t forget that a concave nose built out to hook-nose convexity by injections of paraffin, such as the beauty-doctors everywhere advertise, is a poor thing for a White Hope.”

Both Burke and O’Connor had seized Forbes, but Kennedy had turned his attention to the larger of Forbes’s grips, which the Wollstone woman vociferously claimed as her own.  Quickly he wrenched it open.

As he turned it up on the table my eyes fairly bulged at the sight.  Forbes’ suit-case might have been that of a travelling salesman for the Kimberley, the Klondike, and the Bureau of Engraving, all in one.  Craig dumped the wealth out on the table—­ stacks of genuine bills, gold coins of two realms, diamonds, pearls, everything portable and tangible all heaped up and topped off with piles of counterfeits awaiting the magic touch of this Midas to turn them into real gold.

“Forbes, you have failed in your get-away,” said Craig triumphantly.  “Gentlemen, you have here a master counterfeiter, surely—­a master counterfeiter of features and fingers as well as of currency.”

VI

THE SAND-HOG

“Interesting story, this fight between the Five-Borough and the Inter-River Transit,” I remarked to Kennedy as I sketched out the draft of an expose of high finance for the Sunday Star.

“Then that will interest you, also,” said he, throwing a letter down on my desk.  He had just come in and was looking over his mail.

The letterhead bore the name of the Five-Borough Company.  It was from Jack Orton, one of our intimates at college, who was in charge of the construction of a new tunnel under the river.  It was brief, as Jack’s letters always were.  “I have a case here at the tunnel that I am sure will appeal to you, my own case, too,” it read.  “You can go as far as you like with it, but get to the bottom of the thing, no matter whom it hits.  There is some deviltry afoot, and apparently no one is safe.  Don’t say a word to anybody about it, but drop over to see me as soon as you possibly can.”

“Yes,” I agreed, “that does interest me.  When are you going over?”

“Now,” replied Kennedy, who had not taken off his hat.  “Can you come along?”

As we sped across the city in a taxicab, Craig remarked:  “I wonder what is the trouble?  Did you see in the society news this morning the announcement of Jack’s engagement to Vivian Taylor, the daughter of the president of the Five-Borough?”