lowering face.

"Come with me," harshly said Braun, as he led the lad up to the
third floor. When they had entered a rear sleeping-room, Braun
locked the door. "Tell me all," he anxiously cried. "Out with it.
If you lie you'll never leave this house, remember!"

With chattering teeth, the lad delivered himself of his discovery.
It was only after half an hour of cross questioning that Braun was
satisfied with the details of Robert Wade's espionage of Randall
Clayton. "You've done well, for yourself," said Braun, at last,
handing the boy a roll of bills. "But never come here again. I'll
give you an address to-morrow where you can call, telephone or
telegraph, and a name. Post me on all. Keep this from your mother.
I'll handle her myself. Now, by day you can slip over to the store,
by night use the new address. Get home now. Go over the ferry."
He filled the boy's hand with loose silver. "I'll stay here. Speak
to no one. Get out quickly by the side door."

Emil Einstein was safely across the Fulton Ferry before he had
realized the startling change in Fritz Braun's appearance. The flowing
golden beard, the blue glasses, the padded clothes of middle-age
cut were gone. Fritz Braun, lithe, sharp-faced, with piercing eyes,
a dashing cavalry mustache, and dapper Wall Street tailoring, was
twenty years younger, and another man.

His diamond jewels, rakish air and "loose fish" manner bespoke the
flush book-maker or the flashy "boss."

"Here's for a night on the Bowery," gleefully cried Einstein,