Six Seconds of Darkness

Front matter

Made in the United States of America

COPYRIGHT 1918 By DOOD MEAD AND COMPANY Inc.

TO MY FRIEND ROBERT H. DAVIS

Chapter I

CHAPTER I

THE old-timer at the telephone board made a casual entry on the report sheet spread before him, relighted his offensively fragrant pipe, and swung his swivel chair around idly.

“That was O’Rafferty on nine,” he reported. “All’s quiet.”

Desk Sergeant Larry O’Brien grinned cheerfully through the haze of rancid smoke.

“As I was afther sayin’,” he remarked, “ye cannot always sometimes tell. ’Tis these clear and aisy nights which beget action for us poor coppers. Ye wouldn’t be afther thinkin’ by the quietude which has gripped us hereabouts these past sivin days that there’s a bombshell sizzlin’ under headquarters waitin’ to be busted.”

The other answered sagely:

“That all depends on how much you’ve been talking to reporters, Larry. They’ve been asking so many questions and taking so many notes that I’m afraid to say me name’s Farris. They’re wise that something’s up.”

“Bad cess to ’em—the whole beloved lot. There’s Stinson of the News—him that’s so thin he could sit on a dime an’ ye’d shtill be able to read ‘In God We Trust’—he wanted to know was I in on the graft?”

“And you told him2”

“I’m afther givin’ nothin’ away, me bhye. I merely raymarked that I’m no special pals with Barret Rollins, an’ that Police Commissioner Clement Hall app’inted me personally.”

Farris lowered his voice discreetly and hitched his chair confidentially closer.

“They’re wise, ain’t they? The whole crowd?”

“To pwhat?”

“That Rollins is in the middle of the fireworks? That Hamilton’s been trying to get him ever since Hall became interested in this Civic Reform League? I don’t see,” he complained, “why they always start in on the police when they decide a city needs cleanin’ up?”

“Logic, most likely. And as for Robbins, he don’t be afther lovin’ Commissioner Hall nor Mister Edward J. Hamilton anny more than they’re lovin’ him; which is considerable less than none at all. An’ he’s a good detective, too; he’s keen, an’ he’s got a good head on a pair of hefty shoulders. But, Al, me bhye, Oi’m thinkin’ Oi’d rather be a disk sergeant right this minute than Mister Barret Rollins, chief av detictives. An’—well, speakin’ av angels—or divils2”

The street door swung back and a man of medium height briefly acknowledged the salute of the gray-haired doorman. The newcomer swung across to the desk, and nodded a curt greeting.

“O’Brien,” he said, “how goes it?”

“So-so, chief. How’s the bhye?”

“Well enough. Anything new tonight?”

“Everything’s dead. Nothing stirring anywhere except a stiff was drug out av the river an’ carried to Carson’s undertaking joint. What’s new with you?”

“Nothing, nothing at all. I’ll be going into the office yonder for a smoke and a bit of a snooze. If you want me2” He waved his hand airily.

O’Brien’s eyes followed the man with interest as he walked across the room toward the little door which opened into his private office. Barrett Rollins radiated strength and physical ability in every well-knit line of his stocky figure. His unusual breadth and depth of chest conveyed an impression of lack of height to which a tape measure easily gave the lie. Nor was his face that of the average plain-clothes man; the eyes were a bit too close set, perhaps, but they were level eyes—eyes blessed with the rare faculty of penetration. The brain behind those eyes was alert and ruthless.

He had worked himself to his present position as chief of the plain-clothes force by dint of sheer ability. A little political pull may have helped here and there, but that assistance had been inconsiderable. He was an efficient man, greatest testimony to which was given by the unanimous praise of his worst enemies—who, by the way, numbered legion. He was a martinet; unbending, inexorable, heartless. His third degree was a classic.

Larry O’Brien chuckled softly as he chewed the stub of a dilapidated cigar.

“And to think of him,” he remarked, “bein’ squeezed between th’ thumb an’ forefinger of a little, undersized runt of a reformer like Edward Hamilton. Hamilton’s said he’s ready to turn things loose an’ tear ’em up, an’ he never makes a statement unless2”

The telephone on his desk jangled sharply. Farris groaned audibly as he lifted himself from the depths of his swivel chair and the sergeant motioned him back to rest.

“Oi’ll be afther answerin’ it mesilf,” he said, and then, lifting the receiver: “P’lice headquarters.”

From the other end of the wire came the curt, incisive tones of Police Commissioner Clement Hall, the real czar of the department under the city’s new form of government.

“Sergeant O’Brien?”

“Yis, sor. Misther Hall, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Is Rollins there?”

“Yis, sor.”

“Tell him to take two of his best men, Hawkins and Cartwright, if they’re there, and hustle to the home of Edward J. Hamilton in Chief Rariden’s automobile.”

“The chief’s auto ain’t here, sor.”

“A taxicab, then,” came the impatient snap. “Hurry! That’s the thing I’m after.”

“And whin they get there, sor?”

the commissioner’s usually placid voice quivered with excitement:

“Hamilton has been murdered!”

“Pwhatt? Edward Hamilton?”

“Yes. Tell Rollins to drop everything else and stick on that case until he gets the man. Tell him I know nothing about it except that Mrs. Faber, Hamilton’s housekeeper, just telephoned me that Hamilton had been shot. I’m coming right down to headquarters. Tell Rollins to keep in touch with me. I want speed; understand? And I want him to catch the man who did it!”

The receiver clicked on the hook, and Sergeant Larry O’Brien dazedly followed suit at his end. Farris had risen and was standing at the sergeant’s elbow, his old eyes on fire with excitement.

“What’s that, O’Brien—what’s that?”

“There’s hell broke loose!” came back the sharp answer. “Orderly!”

The young policeman on duty answered the call immediately. He had heard just enough of the conversation to comprehend its import.

“Yes, sir?”

“Call Chief Rollins—quick!” Then, turning back to Farris: “Hamilton killed! Holy, sufferin’ mackerel!”

Rollins came out of his private office on the jump. His little eyes were blazing, and his manner radiated the competence which had carried him to his present position of eminence on the police force.

“What’s this? Hamilton killed?”

“Deader’n a doornail!” snapped O’Brien. “Hall wants you to take Hawkins and Cartwright and stick around there until you get the guy. Didn’t tell me anything. Says the housekeeper telephoned him. He’s coming down here, and is afther wantin’ you to keep in touch with us. He’s liable to stop in there, so ye’d better hurry.”

“I’ll hurry. Orderly! Hike upstairs and tell Cartwright and Hawkins to come running.” He viciously bit off the end of a black cigar. “Good Lord! Hamilton killed!”

In an unbelievably short time the two plain-clothes officers presented themselves at the desk. Rollins briefly ordered them to follow. The faces of the three men detailed to the case were studies in concentration and bewilderment. Nor could they conceal the excitement which gripped them. That Edward Hamilton of all men should have been murdered at this particular time; Edward Hamilton, civic reformer, broker, social leader! And evidently in his own home!

Even before the door had closed behind them policemen appeared from the dormitories upstairs in various stages of disarray, begging for news. To all of them O’Brien made the same answer. He knew nothing except that Hamilton had been murdered. How or why or when he did not know. As to the place of the crime, he judged it had been at Hamilton’s home. Policemen gathered in knots and discussed the case excitedly, robbing themselves of well-earned sleep that they might miss no detail of the case as it was telephoned in. One by one they went up-stairs to make themselves presentable, only to return and lounge about the grim room, speculating on the whys and wherefores.

Edward J. Hamilton occupied a unique position in the city’s life. A bachelor at forty, his household had no other members except his ward, a girl of about nineteen years of age, and one of the city’s most popular débutantes, and a Mrs. Faber, who for many years had held the position of housekeeper.

Years before he had retired from the active business life of the city, although his retirement had been more a figure of speech than an actual fact. He was financially interested in most of the city’s largest enterprises; he was on the directorates of the First National Bank and of a large lumber corporation. He was socially in demand—a thorough cosmopolite, a polished gentleman, a patron of the arts; a man known for his gentleness of disposition, his lovableness of character, his unflagging devotion to duty, and, above all, for his fearlessness.

Of enemies he had many; no man of decided character is ever entirely free from enemies, but they respected him. During recent years public office had been thrust at him, and he had steadfastly declined. But lately he had forged to the front of the stage with the organization of the Civic Reform League—a body of leading citizens who recognized the rottenness in Denmark and had decided to weed their municipal garden. It was at head of such a body of men that one who knew Hamilton would expect to find him. And there he was!

His murder, coming at this time, was nothing less than sensational. No single event could have so shaken the city. The veriest novice of the police force felt himself on his toes, for it was public knowledge that the force had been slated to receive the first broadside from the guns of the Civic Reform League, captained by the dead man. It was up to the department to make good, to do its bit to neutralize the sentiment against it by prompt and efficient action in discovering and apprehending the culprit.

The clock over the sergeant’s desk slowly struck ten, and with the striking came the first of the calls from the policemen on the various beats about the city, giving their hourly report. At five minutes past ten a handsome limousine whirred up to the door of police headquarters. It jerked to a protesting stop with a loud screeching of brakes. Immediately the officers about the walls rose to their feet and massed together, staring toward the door.

In the stark glare of the single carbon lamp which glowed in the doorway, the figure of a woman appeared. She jumped from the driver’s seat of the big car, gathered her skirts about her, and half walked, half ran, across the sidewalk and into the police station.

She entered the room and paused in uncertainty. Larry O’Brien, rising to his feet, appraised her swiftly with his keen Irish eyes.

He saw a girl of about nineteen years of age, a girl with rose-red cheeks and now-pallid lips, flashing black eyes and raven hair. She was of medium height, slender, and, even in the tempest of emotion by which she was plainly gripped, wonderfully graceful. Her bosom rose and fell unevenly; the folds of her wrap fell back, disclosing a costly evening dress. The young policeman in the corner who had patrolled the beat on which the murder had that night occurred stifled an exclamation of surprise, but did not succeed in holding back the girl’s name:

“Miss Duval!”

A gasp went up from the policemen. They surged closer to the desk. Sergeant O’Brien rasped them back and bowed to the girl:

“Yes, miss?”

She stared about her in bewilderment.

“This—this is police headquarters?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I want to see the chief.”

“I’m sorry, miss, he isn’t here.”

It was plain that she was on the verge of hysteria. With a filmy bit of lacy handkerchief she dashed the tears from her eyes.

“I must see him, I tell you! I am Eunice Duval, Mr. Hamilton’s ward. Mr. Hamilton has just been—been—killed!”

O’Brien lowered his voice, trying futilely to quiet her agitation:

“Yes, ma’am; we’ve just heard it. Don’t you worry none, ma’am, we’ve got our best men out on the case, an’ we’ll catch the man that did it. Bad cess to th’ spalpeen.”

The girl stopped short and stared at him. Then she broke into a laugh; a laugh which was not good to hear—a loud laugh, gratingly harsh.

“You’ll catch the one who did it? Who—who? You?”

O’Brien was nonplussed and not a little embarrassed. A woman in hysterics!

“Keep a holt on yersilf, ma’am. I’m Sergint O’Brien—Larry O’Brien, at yer service, ma’am. If ye’ll have a chair I’ll2”

She stared at him as though transfixed. Then her hands went to her bosom, and she threw back her head once more. Peal after peal of laughter rang out; the laughter of uncontrolled hysteria. Larry O’Brien, mumbling to the saints for help, deserted his post at the desk and rounded the railing to her side. One of the patrolmen—a man of family—diagnosed the case and sent out a hurry call for a flask of whisky.

“Take it aisy, now, ma’am,” soothed O’Brien. “’Tis a terrible thing, to be sure, but we’ll catch the guy.”

The laughter stopped as abruptly and as eerily as it had started. For a minute the girl tried to speak—but the words seemed to choke her.

“You—you can call back the men you—you sent on the case,” she said.

“Call them back? Ye’re not falin’ well, miss.”

“No. Can’t you understand what I came here for? I came here to give myself up! I killed Mr. Hamilton!”

Chapter II

CHAPTER II

A POLICEMAN in the crowd said “Oh!” very suddenly, and another one broke in with a hoarse “Shut up!” Farris, the old-timer, mechanically took down the report of the patrolman on beat sixteen. The orderly produced a chair as though by magic, and into it Eunice Duval sank gratefully.

Not even the sensational news of Hamilton’s death had created the stir in the minds of the policemen which was begotten by the confession of the girl that she was guilty of the crime. It was Larry O’Brien who first regained a semblance of his poise, and he forced a light laugh to his lips.

“Av course,” he said in what he fondly believed to be a calm and matter-of-fact tone, “that’s different. There bein’ extenuatin’ circumstances2”

The girl looked up quickly.

“There—there weren’t,” she said simply. “I—I just shot him.”

“Ah, g’wan wid yez! He was thryin’ to attack ye2” O’Brien was talking more to soothe her than to arrive at any definite conclusion, but she had grown suddenly calmer.

“No, he wasn’t attacking—me. I—well, I’ve told you. I shot him, and—I’ve given myself up.”

“But surely2”

“I’m afraid I don’t want to say anything else right now. I believe there’s no bail in mur—in such cases as this—and I’d rather you put me—wherever you’re going to put me. I’m very tired.”

Larry scratched his head in bewilderment.

“If it was silf-definse, now2”

“I’m afraid it wasn’t. And I’d prefer not to say anything else.”

“If there’s something we can be afther doin’—”

Another car whirred to a stop outside, and a slender man, clean-shaven and rather boyish of appearance, entered the hall. There was something aggressive in his calm blue eyes and in the carriage of his small, well-set frame. Some of the policemen, seeing him, jerked to attention and touched their hands to the visors of their caps. But O’Brien was too dazed even for that.

“Good avenin’, sor!” was his greeting.

Police Commissioner Clement Hall looked up sharply. Then his eyes lighted on the pitiful figure of the girl in evening dress. Instantly his frigidity of manner dropped, and he took her hand in both of his.

“Eunice! You’ve given us a frightful scare. I stopped at the house and they told me that you had gone somewhere in the car.”

“Yes; I came here to tell2”

“They knew about it, my girl. Mrs. Faber telephoned me, and I got in touch with them. Well go back2”

“No—I’m going to stay.”

“No, you’d better come back; or, if you don’t want to return to the house, you can come with me. Mrs. Hall will look after you for a few days.”

“You don’t understand,” she explained slowly. “I’m a prisoner.”

“A prisoner?” Hall forced a smile to his lips. “I’m afraid the—er—a tragedy has worked on your nerves.”

“My nerves are—very good. You see, I—I2” She was shaken with a sudden paroxysm of sobs, and the police commissioner turned dazedly to Larry O’Brien.

“What is she talking about?”

“That I dunno, sor, excipt that she came in here a bit agone all shook up like ye see her now, sor, and says that she killed Mr. Hamilton!”

“What? Good God!” Hall stared in amazement, and then voiced the thought that was uppermost in the minds of each: “It’s ridiculous!”

“I said as much, sor; but she says she shot him2”

“I shot him,” said Eunice dully. “Just a little while ago. I came right down in the car to give myself up.”

“Here!” Hall placed his hands paternally on her shoulders. “You are unnerved, and I’m afraid—not quite yourself. You know that you didn’t shoot Mr. Hamilton.”

Again she was calm, although her body was still wracked by an occasional sob.

“You mean that you think I did not—even after I say that I did? That is very foolish, Mr. Hall. I shot Mr. Hamilton.”

“Come home with me2”

“Won’t you understand? They are to hold me here. They can’t let me go. There’s no bail in such cases as this. I admit that I am unstrung, but I haven’t lost my senses. I shot Mr. Hamilton less than an hour ago. You can tell the detectives to come back. I—I—shot him—in the dark!”

“In the dark?”

She passed a tired hand across her forehead.

“The lights went out—for about six seconds. But I’d rather not discuss it now. I wish you’d call Mr. Denson. He is my lawyer as well as Mr. Hamilton’s. I’d rather tell him about it. I have a very bad headache.”

Hall stared at her, pop-eyed.

“O’Brien,” he snapped, “telephone Samuel R. Denson to come here immediately. Say Miss Duval is here and wants to see him. At once, you understand And now, Eunice, let me beg you to be careful of your words. I am sure that there is some dreadful mistake. You couldn’t have killed Mr. Hamilton2”

“I did,” she repeated monotonously. “I killed him. I’d rather not talk about it now. I’m very tired. Won’t you ask them to put me somewhere—by myself? Please—you don’t understand—and I’d rather not discuss it now.”

“Very well; I’ll take you to the chief’s office and try to make you comfortable. I am sure that there is a mistake somewhere. You had no motive.”

“Yes, I had a motive.”

“And it was?” eagerly.

“I’d rather not talk about it now, if you please. Won’t you take me to that—that—room?”

He offered her his arm in his most courtly fashion, and together they crossed to the door of the chief’s office. Once in there, she sank down on the couch.

“Now please go, Mr. Hall.”

“But, Eunice2”

“Go—please. I’d rather be alone.”

“You must tell me.”

“I will tell no one anything. Just let me know when Mr. Denson comes. I’ve said all I care to say—now.”

Hall shook his head.

“I—I—am all up in the air. I’ll wait here at the station, of course. If you need me or want me, you can press that button. And when Mr. Denson comes I’ll send him in.”

“Thank you,” she answered in a tired little voice. “There’s nothing you can do—really. Perhaps they might let Mrs. Faber stay here with me. If you’ll just send her down2”

“I’ll be waiting here, and of course she can come.”

“I wish you wouldn’t see me any more tonight, Mr. Hall. I appreciate your— your—kindness, but really I’d rather not. Oh, you must understand that I’d rather not be bothered! It was all so quick and so—so—horrible! Go, please.”

The police commissioner made his way into the main room slowly. He was frowning with bewilderment. The thing was beyond his powers of comprehension. He could not understand the girl. Undoubtedly she had shot Hamilton—her reiteration was too sincere. But how? Or why? Above all—why?

Hall had known Hamilton intimately for twenty years. He had known Eunice since her birth. He had watched her grow through a skinny-legged girlhood to a magnificent maturity. He had been present at the guardianship proceedings after the death of her parents, when, by the will of her father, Hamilton was made the girl’s guardian and trustee of her considerable estate.

That she instinctively disliked Hamilton he had realized, but a mere dislike does not usually lead to tragedy. They had never gotten along well together—despite the fact that the dead man had been passionately fond of his young ward. As for her dislike for the man she had killed, that had dated back to childhood, and ripened with the passing of years. She had tolerated him because of her legal status in his household, but she made no secret of her aversion. And now2 Why, the thing was inconceivable.

The group of thoroughly excited policemen divided into little knots as Hall appeared. Then one of them came forward and touched his cap.

“Mr. Carroll is here, sir. He says you telephoned him.”

“Yes. Show him into the office of the chief of detectives.”

Glad that he had something definite to do, Hall made his way to the room of the chief of detectives, after first instructing O’Brien to do nothing except by his orders.

Once in the room, he telephoned to Mrs. Faber, housekeeper for the dead man, and requested that she come to police headquarters at once. Then he waited for David Carroll. Clement Hall had great faith in Carroll, but he knew that the man faced a difficult assignment, an unusual task—that of plumbing the depths of the mad impulse which must have prompted Eunice Duval to the shooting of her guardian.

The door opened and Carroll entered, entered so silently that for a moment Hall was not fully conscious of his presence. The police commissioner laughed shortly.

“If I didn’t know you better, Carroll, I’d say that that was a pose of yours—that damnable pussy-footed way you have of getting about. I don’t wonder they call you Silent Carroll. Sit down.”

The detective obeyed. Slumped down in the easy-chair by the side of the chiefs desk, he looked anything other than a famous detective. His pink-cheeked, boyish face gave the lie to the actuality of his thirty-eight years, his narrow shoulders gave no hint of the wiry strength they possessed, his baby blue eyes were partly veiled by silky lashes. David Carroll would have passed for anything anywhere save a detective. He was immaculately dressed in the latest tight-fitting clothes, his shoes were narrow and pointed, he carried a light cane and wore his hair pompadoured.

Yet David Carroll was known in six States as one of the cleverest of private detectives. His inoffensive appearance, which had proved a handicap to confidence at the outset of his career, was not his greatest asset. He had a way of insinuating himself into one’s consciousness without saying a word or making a physical motion. One could easily fancy him a college senior, or a cub of a lawyer; but a detective, never.

Immediately on hearing of Hamilton’s murder, Hall had telephoned Carroll. The men had worked together in the past, and Carroll’s assistance had been enlisted by the Civic Reform League during the past few months for the purpose of collecting data against certain members of the police force and the city-hall officials. For that reason, if for no other, the man was intensely unpopular at headquarters; yet he carried himself with an attitude of confidence which begot respect even where it inspired fear. Hall leaned forward and launched into his story; the news of Hamilton’s killing, the telephoning to the police department, and the assignment of Rollins to cover the case; then the startling confession of Eunice Duval. Finally he finished.

“I had intended putting you in charge of the case over Rollins’ head,” he said, “but of course Miss Duval’s confession alters matters. I’ll have to engage you privately to collect evidence which will result in her acquittal at the inevitable trial. You have met her yourself, and you know it is absurd to think that she would have killed Hamilton without good and sufficient motive—though what that motive could have been, God only knows. The man was my friend, and, while he was the victim of a terrific temper and strong passions, he was a gentleman, and I cannot imagine him giving cause for such a thing—especially to Eunice Duval.”

Carroll was not given to prodigality of words. His questions came slowly, drawlingly:

“Why ‘especially Eunice Duval’?”

“Because2” Hall flushed. “The man was a bachelor, you know. And I fancy that he was very much in love with Eunice. Her father had been his best friend—it had been one of those rare friendships which did not founder when both men fell in love with the same woman. Duval won her, and it seemed that the affair cemented their affection. Eunice is a replica of her mother, but Hamilton, poor fellow, never felt toward her as a father toward a daughter, although he tried to make her think so. It is another case of—well—he fell in love with the reincarnation of the mother and his best friend.”

“She didn’t like him?”

“No. Instinct probably. She must have guessed that he loved her—as a lover loves, and not as a father. She barely tolerated him. He has spoken to me of the matter many times. It worried him. There was no outspoken dislike, but her attitude has always been such that he has been forced to remain constantly on his best behaviour in her presence. Can’t you understand the utter absurdity of her plea that she killed him? There is a mistake, there must be!”

“Hmm!” Carroll thrummed idly on the arm of his chair. “I’d suggest that you put me in charge of the case.”

“Over Rollins?”

“Over Rollins or not at all.”

“But I’m more interested in freeing Miss Duval.”

“You’re convinced that the truth will clear her, are you not?”

“Yes.”

“Then let me discover the truth.”

“You have a theory?”

“Yes.”

“What is it?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to permit me to remain silent. I do not care to voice unsubstantiated opinions. I know nothing of the case.”

“But surely you can tell me2”

“Nothing!”

The eyes of the two men met; Hall’s black and penetrating, Carroll’s boyishly blue and almost stony in their blankness. Hall shrugged resignedly.

“It’s a go. You’re in charge. I’ll notify the chief of police as soon as he gets back to the city—I’ve wired for him—and I’ll tell Barrett Rollins personally. Which reminds me that I’d better telephone him to come in. There’s no use to have him continue nosing about Hamilton’s home. The coroner’s probably there by this time, and I’d better go there myself. Mrs. Faber is leaving to come down here.”

Carroll rose languidly.

“Think I’ll go with you. You say Miss Duval doesn’t wish to make a statement now?”

“So she says. I’ve telephoned for Mr. Denson, her lawyer. Probably after she sees him she’ll be willing to give us details regarding the shooting. Until then—you know, old man, these things are the basis of your profession, but the thing has hit me all of a heap. And, funny as it sounds, I’m not nearly so shocked by the death of my friend as I am by the confession of his ward. Of course you can’t appreciate2”

“I believe I can,” smiled Carroll. “I’m human, you see—quite human.”

“Yes,” slowly, “sometimes I believe you are. At other times I am not quite sure that you are not a fish.”

The men walked into the main hall to receive the report of Sergeant Larry O’Brien that Mrs. Faber had arrived and had taken charge of Eunice in the private office of the chief. In response to Hall’s query, via a patrolman, as to whether she cared to see him, Eunice sent word that she would have no statement to make until after she had seen Mr. Denson, except that she repeated the statement that she had killed Hamilton.

Hall shrugged and turned to Carroll.

“You see, she is very insistent.”

“Yes,” returned Carroll significantly, “very!”

“And now,” continued the commissioner, “to telephone Rollins. Hello! What’s this?”

“This” was a narrow-shouldered, sunken-chested, rather wild-eyed old man who slouched into headquarters from the street. His watery eyes blinked in the glare of the brilliant light, and he eyed the crowd of uniformed men dazedly. From Sergeant O’Brien came a muttered:

“The owld geezer looks half cracked.”

The old man, apparently upward of sixty years of age, appeared bewildered. He shifted uncertainly from one foot to the other, undecided as to what to do next. Then he timidly inquired for the chief of police.

“Not in the city,” answered one of the policemen. “What do you want?”

“Who—who is in charge here?” faltered the old fellow.

The policeman designated Commissioner Hall, and immediately the newcomer turned toward him. His weak eyes roved here and there about the room, apparently unable to come to rest for any time on any definite object. Hall turned away quickly.

“Take charge of him, O’Brien. I haven’t time to waste with2”

“I want to see you, sir,” said the little fellow. “My name is Badger, Frederick Badger.”

Hall’s subconscious mind vaguely recalled that the name was not unfamiliar. Frederick Badger. Badger? Where had he heard the name before?