“Say, Chief, that’s going it pretty strong.  I’d rather break in up there and leave a threat of some kind, something that would frighten them.  But, this,—­I’m afraid—­”

“Afraid—­nothing.  I tell you, we’ve got to do it.  They’re getting too close to us.  We’ve either got to get Garrick or do something that’ll call him off for good.  Why, man, the whole game is up if he keeps on the way he has been going—­let alone the risk we have of getting caught.”

The Boss seemed to be considering.

“How will you get a chance to do it?” he asked at length.

“Oh, I’ll get a chance, all right.  I’ll make a chance,” came back the self-confident reply.

It sent a shiver through me merely to contemplate what might happen if Violet Winslow fell into such hands.  Mentally I blessed Garrick for his forethought in having the phony ’phone in the garage against possible discovery of the detective instrument.

“You know this poisoned needle stuff that’s been in the papers?” pursued the Chief.

“Bunk—­all bunk,” came back the Boss promptly.

“Is that so?” returned the Chief.  “Well, you’re right about it as far as what has been in the papers is concerned.  I don’t know but I doubt about ninety-nine and ninety-nine hundredths per cent of it, too.  But, I’ll tell you,—­it can be done.  Take it from me—­it can be done.  I’ve got one of the best little sleepmakers you ever saw—­right from Paris, too.  There, what do you know about that?”

I glanced hastily, in alarm, at Garrick.  His face was set in hard lines, as he listened.

“Sleepmaker—­Paris,” I heard him mutter under his breath, and just a flicker of a smile crossed the set lines of his fine face.

“Yes, sir,” pursued the voice of the Chief, “I can pull one of those poisoned needle cases off and I’m going to do it, if I get half a chance.”

“When would you do it?” asked the Boss, weakening.

“As soon as I can.  I’ve a scheme.  I’m not going to tell you over the wire, though.  Leave it to me.  I’m going up to our place, where I left the car.  I’ll study the situation out, up there.  Maybe I’ll run over and look over the ground, see how she spends her time and all that sort of thing.  I’ve got to reckon in with that aunt, too.  She’s a Tartar.  I’ll let you know.  In the meantime, I want you to watch that place on Forty-seventh Street.  Tell me if they make any move against it.  Don’t waste any time, either.  I can’t be out of touch with things the way I was the last time I went away.  You see, they almost put one across on us—­in fact they did put one across with that detectaphone thing.  Now, we can’t let that happen again.  Just keep me posted, see?”

They had finished talking and that was apparently all we were to get that night, or rather that morning, by way of warning of their plot for the worst move yet.

It was enough.  If they would murder and burn, what would they stop at in order to strike at us through the innocent figure of Violet Winslow?  What might not happen to such a delicate slip of a girl in the power of such men?