they approached the machine.

"Say, what you drivin' at?" cried the driver, queruously. "Is
this a hold-up?" It was a puzzling moment, but the
criminologist's calm bravado saved the situation: as luck would
have it no policemen were in sight, to spoil the maneuver.

"No," and he assumed a more natural voice and dialect. "I'm a
detective. These men were just house-breaking, and I got them.
There's twenty-five dollars in it for you, if you take us down to
the Holland Detective Agency, in ten minutes."

"He's kiddin' ye, feller," snapped out one man.

"Don't fall fen him, yen boob!" sung out the other.

But Shirley's automatic now appeared outside the coat pocket.
The chauffeur realized that here was serious gaming. With his
left hand Shirley jerked out the ever ready police card and fire
badge, which seemed official enough to satisfy the driver.

"Quick now, or I'll run you in, too, for refusing to obey an
officer. You men climb into that back seat. Driver, beat it now
to Thirty-nine West Forty Street, if you need that twenty-five
dollars. I'll sit with them. I don't want any interference so I
can come back and nab the rest of their gang."

His authoritative manner convinced this new ally, and he climbed
into the car, facing his prisoners, with the two weapons held
down below the level of the windows. Pedestrians and other