Satisfied that Chip was in danger, if not of his life at least of his liberty, Sam hastened to his room, and with the aid of soap and water resumed his natural appearance.  The jaunty-looking Irish lad, Barney O’Hara, would never be recognized in the young gentleman who looked at you through gold-rimmed spectacles, with soft gray eyes, and whose sober demeanor and grave countenance bore the stamp of the student or minister.

It was this metamorphized individual that walked languidly to the breakfast table and responded in gentle tones to the woman’s salutations which greeted him.  Breakfast served and over, Sam again sought his room.  His boarding-house had been selected entirely on account of this room.  The room had once been occupied by a physician as his office, and, standing on the corner of two streets, had a side entrance to it besides the entrance from the main portion of the house.

Thus the detective could slip in and out entirely unobserved by the boarders or his landlady, the latter supposing him to be a man of enough means to enable him to live without daily labor.

Sam had given her this idea, and supplemented it by stating he was engaged in literary pursuits.

Reaching his room, Sam wrote out a full report for the last twenty-four hours (this constituted his literary labors) to be forwarded to Mr. Pinkerton in Chicago.

After his report was finished, he hastily threw off his clothing, and replaced his sober suit of gray by the flashy costume of a man about town, he stood before his mirror to make up his face.

No actor was more clever than Sam in artistic and realistic disguises.  His smooth face was skillfully covered by a beard, short-cropped, his nose was given the slightest rosy tint, and putting on a light overcoat, the studious young gentleman of half an hour ago was transformed into a howling swell.

Tan-colored gloves and a heavy, silver-headed cane completed his costume.  Thus arrayed he sallied forth.

It was now nearly noon.  The streets were crowded, and Sam kept his eyes well opened, carelessly but keenly scrutinizing every man he met.

One saloon after another was visited, but no sight of the mysterious men who had downed Chip could be obtained.

He had carefully noted his bearings when he left the alley in the morning, so he had no trouble in finding the correct locality again.

His hat was tipped rakishly over his left eye as he swaggered up the alley and entered a beer vault for which the alley was really the entrance.  By good luck, no customers were present, and Sam engaged in a lively conversation with the bartender.

Skillful pumping, judiciously mixed with high-priced drinks, soon gave Sam the entire history of the denizens of the locality.

It was beside the shed door of the beer vault that Sam had kept his solitary watch and ward the previous night, so that somewhere about this point Chip had been carried by his captors.