instant by his hands, and then dropped into the centre of the fighting
mob on the floor. He was out of it in an instant with the agility of a
pickpocket, was across the room and at Hade's throat like a dog. The
murderer, for the moment, was the calmer man of the two.

"Here," he panted, "hands off, now. There's no need for all this
violence. There's no great harm in looking at a fight, is there?
There's a hundred-dollar bill in my right hand; take it and let me
slip out of this. No one is looking. Here."

But the detective only held him the closer.

"I want you for burglary," he whispered under his breath. "You've got
to come with me now, and quick. The less fuss you make, the better for
both of us. If you don't know who I am, you can feel my badge under my
coat there. I've got the authority. It's all regular, and when we're
out of this d--d row I'll show you the papers."

He took one hand from Hade's throat and pulled a pair of handcuffs
from his pocket.

"It's a mistake. This is an outrage," gasped the murderer, white and
trembling, but dreadfully alive and desperate for his liberty. "Let me
go, I tell you! Take your hands off of me! Do I look like a burglar,
you fool?"

"I know who you look like," whispered the detective, with his face
close to the face of his prisoner. "Now, will you go easy as a
burglar, or shall I tell these men who you are and what I _do_ want
you for? Shall I call out your real name or not? Shall I tell them?