motorists little recked what strange cargo was borne as the car
raced down the broad thoroughfare.

In nine minutes they drew up before the Holland Agency, a
darkened, brown front house of ancient architecture. The
chauffeur sprang out to swing back the door.

"Go up the steps, and tell the doorman that Captain Cronin wants
two men to bring down their guns and handcuffs and get two
prisoners. Quick!"

The street was not empty, even at this hour. Yet the passersby
did not realize the grim drama enacted inside the waiting
machine. Hours seemed to pass before Cronin's men returned with
the driver, as much surprised by the three strange faces within
the machine, as he had been.

"You take these men upstairs and keep them locked up," bluntly
commanded the criminologist. "They're nabbed on the new case of
the Captain's which started to-night, I'm going over to Bellevue
to see him." His voice was still disguised, his features twisted
even yet.

The men gave him a curious glance, and then obeyed. As they
disappeared behind the heavy wooden door, Shirley stepped into a
dark hallway, close by. He lit a wax match to give him light for
the choosing of the right amount, from the roll of bills which he
drew forth. The chauffeur whistled with surprise at the size of
the denominations. The twenty-five were handed over.