Old Jimmie did not like meeting the police any oftener than a meeting was forced upon him, and so he slipped away and allowed Barney Palmer to undertake alone the business of settling Larry. Barney found Gavegan exactly where he had counted: lingering over his late dinner in the cafe of a famous Broadway restaurant—a favorite with some of the detectives and higher officials of the Police Department—in which cafe, in happier days now deeply mourned, Gavegan had had all the exhilaration he wanted to drink at the standing invitation of the proprietor, and where even yet on occasion a bit of the old exhilaration was brought to Gavegan's table in a cup or served him in a room above to which he had had whispered instructions to retire. The proprietor had in the old days liked to stand well with the police; and though his bar was now devoted to legal drinks—or at least obliging Federal officers reported it to be—he still liked to stand well with the police.

Gavegan was at a table with a minor producer of musical shows, to whom Barney had been of occasional service in securing the predominant essential of such music—namely, shapely young women. Barney nodded to Gavegan, chatted for a few minutes with his musical-comedy friend, during which he gave Gavegan a signal, then crossed to the once-crowded bar, now sunk to isolation and the lowly estate of soft drinks, and ordered a ginger ale. Not until then did he notice Barlow, chief of the Detective Bureau, at a corner table. Barney gave no sign of recognition, and Barlow, after a casual glance at him, returned to his food.

Barney, in solitude at one end of the bar, slowly sipped with a sort of indignation against his kickless purchase. Presently Gavegan was beside him, having most convincing ill-luck in his attempts to light his cigar from a box of splintering safety matches which stood at that end of the bar.

“Well, what is it?” Gavegan whispered out of that corner of his mouth which was not occupied by his cigar. He did not look at Barney.

“Any clue to Larry Brainard yet?” Barney whispered also out of a corner of his mouth, glass at his lips. Like-wise he seemed not to notice the man beside him.

“Naw! Still out West somewhere. Them Chicago bums couldn't catch a crook if he walked along State Street with a sign-board on him!”

“Saw Larry Brainard to-night.”

Gavegan had difficulty in maintaining his attitude of non-awareness of his bar-mate.

“Where?”

“Right here in New York.”

“What! Where'd you see him?”

“Coming out of the Grantham.”

“When?”

“Fifteen minutes ago.”

“Know where he went to?—where he hangs out?—know anything else?”

“That's everything. Thought I'd better slip it to you as quick as I could.”

“This time that bird'll not get away!” growled Gavegan, still in a whisper. “Twenty-four hours and he'll be in the cooler!”

Finally Gavegan managed to get a flame from one of those irritatingly splintery Swedish matches made in Japan. Cigar alight he walked over to Barlow's table. He conversed with his Chief a moment or two, then went out. After a minute Barney saw Chief Barlow crossing toward the bar. Barney seemed not to notice this movement. Barlow likewise paused beside him to light a cigar; and from the side of the Chief's mouth there issued: “Room 613.”

Barlow passed on. Presently Barney finished the dreary drudgery of drink and sauntered out. Five minutes later, having exercised the proper caution, he was in Room 613, and the door was locked.

“What's this dope you just handed Gavegan about Larry Brainard?” demanded Barlow.

Barney gave his information, again, but this time more fully. Of course he omitted all mention of Maggie and the enterprise which Larry had sought to interrupt; it was part of the tacit understanding between these two that Barlow should have no knowledge of Barney's professional doings, unless such knowledge should be forced upon him by events or people too strong to be ignored.

“Did Brainard drop any clue that might give us a lead as to where he's hiding out?”

Barney remembered something Larry had said half an hour before, which he had considered mere boasting. “He said he knew I had some game on, and he said he knew who the sucker was I was planning to trim.”

“Did he say who the sucker was?”

“No.”

“If Larry Brainard really did know, then who would he be having in mind?”

Barney hesitated; but he perceived that this was a question which had to be answered. “Young Dick Sherwood, of the swell Sherwood family—you know.”

Barlow did not pursue the subject. According to his arrangement with Barney, the latter's private activities were none of his business.

“I'll get busy with the drag-net; we'll land Brainard this time,” said Barlow. And then with a grim look at Barney: “But Larry Brainard's not what I got you up here to talk about, Palmer. I wanted to talk about two words to you—and say 'em to you right between your eyes.”

“Go ahead, Chief.”

“First, you ain't been worth a damn to me for several months. You've given me no value received for me keeping my men off of you. You haven't turned up a single thing.”

“Come, now, Chief—you're forgetting about Red Hannigan and Jack Rosenfeldt.”

“Chicken feed! They're out on bail, and when their cases come up, they'll beat them! Besides, you didn't give me that tip to help me; you gave it to me so that you could fix things to put Larry Brainard in bad with all his old friends. You did that to help yourself. Shut up! Don't try to deny it. I know!”

Barney did not attempt denial. Barlow went on:

“And the second thing I want to tell you, and tell you hard, is this: You gotta turn in some business! The easy way you've been going makes it look like you've forgot I've got hold of you where the hair's long. Young man, you'd ............