of its periodic spasms of activity, and the cause ran back to a sordid quarrel between two factions of the Tenderloin.  At about the time when Jimmy came to New York the contention had become too bitter for the underworld to hold, and echoes of it had begun to leak out; later it culminated in the murder of the leader of one clique.  Murders, it is true, are not uncommon in New York, but this one was staged in the glare of Broadway, and with a bold defiance of the law that aroused popular indignation.  There followed a chain of fortuitous happenings that issued in the capture of the murderers, in a wide-spread exposure of social conditions, and in a great outburst of public indignation against a police system that allowed such abuses to exist.

Of course there came a loud protest from the guardians of the law, a frantic waving of spotless banners, and a prating of virtue; but the popular will has a way of obtaining its desires regardless of red tape, trickery, or politics, and in this case it demanded a reorganization of the department and got it.

Discipline suddenly strengthened, and as a result gambling almost ceased, wire-tapping languished, organized blackmail was conducted under cover:  only crime in its crudest forms continued as usual; and it followed therefore that Jimmy Knight was not prosperous.  Had it not been for his share in Bob’s generosity he would have been forced to the distressing necessity of asking for employment —­a thing to curdle his blood!  It was characteristic of young Knight that he did not scruple to accept charity from the man he hated, although he cherished the memory of that public beating at Bob’s hands and the humiliation of it gnawed him like a cancer.

More than once lately Jim had been tempted to turn his knowledge of the Hammon “suicide” into cash, but he could think of no safe and certain means of doing so until one day Max Melcher dropped a bit of intelligence that promised to open a way.

“Who do you suppose I just heard from?” Max inquired, one raw afternoon in March, when he had found Jim in their usual haunt.  “Lilas Lynn.”

Jim made no attempt to conceal his surprise and interest.  “Where is she?”

“She wrote from Liverpool, asking for money.  Can you beat that?”

“Money?  Why, she had a satchel full.  What’s become of it?”

Melcher shrugged.  “She’s taken the jumps—­English Derby, Paris race-meet, Monte Carlo—­”

“Huh!  She fished all the sucker-holes along the route, eh?  Of course you cabled her a few C’s?” Jim snickered.

“Do I look as if I had?  She’s sick, got a cough, and says it’s the ‘con.’  She wants to come home.”

Jim started.  “Say, that’s no hospital bark of hers; it’s nothing but the coke.”  After a moment he asked casually, “Where’s she stopping?”

“Liverpool.”

“What’s her address?  I’ll drop her a line to cheer her up.”  “She wrote from the Hotel—­” Melcher checked himself and shot a questioning look at his friend.  “Why this sudden charity?”