mind with lightning speed grouped the torn express tag, the words "it to
Cook," the man Cook, who lay beside him drunk, the fifty-dollar bill
which he had changed at the bar-room, together with Dan Moriarity, and
quick to reach his conclusions, he saw that it was the Moriarity he
wanted, accompanied by some one who had come to see Cook.

Half opening his eyes he saw that Moriarity was standing up, nonplussed
at something, and instantly he drew his revolver, and as Moriarity
turned around covered him and ordered him to hold out his hands.

Staggered again the second time by seeing a ragged tramp, who a few
seconds before was stretched at his feet in a drunken slumber, now
erect, perfectly sober, and having the drop on him, Moriarity became
more bewildered, and passively held out his hands.

The sharp click of steel handcuffs brought the dazed man to his senses,
but too late.

He opened his mouth to cry for aid, but a strong hand was laid on his
wind-pipe and the cry died before it was born.

The cold barrel of the revolver against his ear, and the detective's
"shut up or I'll shoot," was too strong an argument to combat, and
Moriarity submitted to being pushed hurriedly from the room into the
open air and dark night.

Chip was beginning to congratulate himself on the important capture he
had made, and with his hand on his captive's collar, and his revolver to
his ear, was moving towards the center of the street, when a whistling
"swish" was heard, the dull thud of a slung shot on the detective's head