'Phone headquarters to rush every man available up to the Day and
Night Bank, and say it's from me!"

He stood chewing his cigar savagely as the sergeant hastened to obey.
In a moment, the reserves came tumbling out, struggling into their
coats; there was a clatter of hoofs in the street as the wagon dashed
up; the reserves piled into it, permitting me to crowd in beside
them, Grady jumped to the seat beside the driver, and we were off at
a gallop, our gong waking the echoes of the silent street.

I clung to the hand-rail as the wagon swayed back and forth or
bounded into the air as it struck the car-tracks, and stared out into
the night, struggling to understand. Could Godfrey be right? But of
course he was right! Some intuition told me that; and yet, how had
Crochard managed to substitute himself for the French detective?
Where was Pigot? Was he lying somewhere in a crumpled heap, with a
tiny wound upon his hand? But that could not be--Grady and Simmonds
had been with him all the evening! And could that aged Frenchman with
the white, fine, wrinkled skin be also the bronzed and virile
personage whom I had known as Félix Armand? My reason reeled before
the seeming impossibility of it--and yet, somehow, I knew that
Godfrey was right!

The wagon came to a stop so suddenly that I was thrown violently
against the man next to me, and the reserves, leaping out, swept me
before them. We were in front of the Day and Night Bank, and at a
word from Grady, the men spread into a close cordon before the
building.

Another police wagon stood at the curb, with the driver still on the