frank, straight-arm hand shakes. There was nothing to do but go.

At least, I reflected, I had the greater part of the story--all
except the one big thing, however,--the name of the criminal. But
Dodge would know him tomorrow!

I hurried back to the Star to write my story in time to catch the
last morning edition.

. . . . . . . .

Meanwhile, if I may anticipate my story, I must tell of what we
later learned had happened to Dodge so completely to upset him.

Ever since the Consolidated Mutual had been hit by the murders, he
had had many lines out in the hope of enmeshing the perpetrator.
That night, as I found out the next day, he had at last heard of a
clue. One of the company's detectives had brought in a red-headed,
lame, partly paralyzed crook who enjoyed the expressive monniker
of "Limpy Red." "Limpy Red" was a gunman of some renown, evil
faced and having nothing much to lose, desperate. Whoever the
master criminal of the Clutching Hand might have been he had seen
fit to employ Limpy but had not taken the precaution of getting
rid of him soon enough when he was through.

Wherefore Limpy had a grievance and now descended under pressure
to the low level of snitching to Dodge in his office.

"No, Governor," the trembling wretch had said as he handed over a
grimy envelope, "I ain't never seen his face--but here is