"That's a cracking good sketch!" pronounced the reporter at his side.
"Let the inspector see it."

"What is it?" demanded Clayton, scowling.

Jimmie Dale handed him the notebook modestly.

Inspector Clayton took it, looked at it, looked at Jimmie Dale; then his
scowl relaxed into a self-sufficient and pleased smile, and he grunted
approvingly.

"That's the stuff to put over," he said. "Mabbe you're not much of
a reporter, but you can draw. Y're all right, sport--y're all right.
Forget what I said to you a while ago."

Jimmie Dale smiled too--deprecatingly. And put the notebook in his
pocket.

An officer entered the room hurriedly, and, drawing Clayton aside, spoke
in an undertone. A triumphant and malicious grin settled on Clayton's
features, and he started with a rush for the door.

"Come around to headquarters in two hours, boys," he called as he went
out, "and I'll have something more for you."

The room cleared, the reporters tumbling downstairs to make for the
nearest telephones to get their "copy" into their respective offices.

On the street, a few doors up from the house where they were free from