“For God’s sake,” Hade begged, “let me go.  Come with me to my room and I’ll give you half the money.  I’ll divide with you fairly.  We can both get away.  There’s a fortune for both of us there.  We both can get away.  You’ll be rich for life.  Do you understand—­for life!”

But the detective, to his credit, only shut his lips the tighter.

“That’s enough,” he whispered, in return.  “That’s more than I expected.  You’ve sentenced yourself already.  Come!”

Two officers in uniform barred their exit at the door, but Hefflefinger smiled easily and showed his badge.

“One of Byrnes’s men,” he said, in explanation; “came over expressly to take this chap.  He’s a burglar; ‘Arlie’ Lane, alias Carleton.  I’ve shown the papers to the captain.  It’s all regular.  I’m just going to get his traps at the hotel and walk him over to the station.  I guess we’ll push right on to New York tonight.”

The officers nodded and smiled their admiration for the representative of what is, perhaps, the best detective force in the world, and let him pass.

Then Hefflefinger turned and spoke to Gallegher, who still stood as watchful as a dog at his side.  “I’m going to his room to get the bonds and stuff,” he whispered; “then I’ll march him to the station and take that train.  I’ve done my share; don’t forget yours!”

“Oh, you’ll get your money right enough,” said Gallegher.  “And, sa-ay,” he added, with the appreciative nod of an expert, “do you know, you did it rather well.”

Mr. Dwyer had been writing while the raid was settling down, as he had been writing while waiting for the fight to begin.  Now he walked over to where the other correspondents stood in angry conclave.

The newspaper men had informed the officers who hemmed them in that they represented the principal papers of the country, and were expostulating vigorously with the captain, who had planned the raid, and who declared they were under arrest.

“Don’t be an ass, Scott,” said Mr. Dwyer, who was too excited to be polite or politic.  “You know our being here isn’t a matter of choice.  We came here on business, as you did, and you’ve no right to hold us.”

“If we don’t get our stuff on the wire at once,” protested a New York man, “we’ll be too late for tomorrow’s paper, and—­”

Captain Scott said he did not care a profanely small amount for to-morrow’s paper, and that all he knew was that to the station-house the newspaper men would go.  There they would have a hearing, and if the magistrate chose to let them off, that was the magistrate’s business, but that his duty was to take them into custody.

“But then it will be too late, don’t you understand?” shouted Mr. Dwyer.  “You’ve got to let us go now, at once.”

“I can’t do it, Mr. Dwyer,” said the captain, “and that’s all there is to it.  Why, haven’t I just sent the president of the Junior Republican Club to the patrol-wagon, the man that put this coat on me, and do you think I can let you fellows go after that?  You were all put under bonds to keep the peace not three days ago, and here you’re at it—­fighting like badgers.  It’s worth my place to let one of you off.”