to give expert advice, was enthusiastic.

"Mr. District Attorney," he cried, "that's no crank letter. This
Earle woman is wise. You got to take her as a serious proposition.
She wouldn't make that play if she couldn't get away with it."

"Who is she?" asked Wharton.

To the police, the detective assured them, Ida Earle had been known
for years. When she was young she had been under the protection of
a man high in the ranks of Tammany, and, in consequence, with her
different ventures the Police had never interfered. She now was
proprietress of the road-house in the note described as Kessler's
Cafe. It was a place for joy- riders. There was a cabaret, a hall
for public dancing, and rooms for very private suppers.

In so far as it welcomed only those who could spend money it was
exclusive, but in all other respects its reputation was of the
worst. In situation it was lonely, and from other houses separated
by a quarter of a mile of dying trees and vacant lots.

The Boston Post Road upon which it faced was the old post road, but
lately, through this back yard and dumping-ground of the city, had
been relaid. It was patrolled only and infrequently by bicycle
policemen. "But this," continued the detective eagerly, "is where
we win out. The road-house is an old farmhouse built over, with the
barns changed into garages. They stand on the edge of a wood. It's
about as big as a city block. If we come in through the woods from
the rear, the garages will hide us. Nobody in the house can see us,
but we won't be a hundred yards away. You've only to blow a police