An evil smile flickered about the lips of the guardian.  
“Well,” he said, “I give you the hint. Make the most of it. I could have given it to the private detectives, but I thought the Secret Service safer.”
 
“That was a wise move,” said the chief. “The Secret Service is all that its name implies, absolutely safe!”
 
“When shall I expect to hear from you?”
 
“At a date as early as possible.”
 
“You know where my office is?”
 
“Yes.”
 
“Very well. Good-day!”
 
“Good-day!”
 
The door closed and Blood was gone. The detectives emerged from behind the screen.
 
“Well?” said the chief.
 
“Ahem!” said Harry.
 
“Humph!” exclaimed Old King Brady.
 
They exchanged glances.
 
“What do you think of that fellow?” asked the chief, finally.
 
“He’s an atrocious old scoundrel!” said Harry, impulsively.
 
“Well, I think so,” agreed Old King Brady. “There is a dark game underneath all this. Somebody has been fearfully wronged.”
 
“I hope you will get at the bottom of it,” said the chief.
 
“We will!”
 
“I wish you luck!”
 
The Bradys went to the door.
 
“Thank you!” replied Old King Brady. “We shall see you again when we have something worth reporting.”
 
“Good! I shall wait with eagerness.”
 
Then parting salutations were exchanged and the detectives went out upon the street.
 
It was natural for them to fall into the making of deductions.
 
Many an important fact is arrived at through the medium of deduction.
 
By a process of reasoning, therefore, the Bradys managed to hit upon what they believed was a true line.
 
To them it looked logical that there was an animus in the purpose of Blood in throwing suspicion upon the young clerk, Allerton Banks.
 
The detectives made searching inquiries.
 
They discovered that Allerton Banks was a young man of character and reputation beyond reproach.
 
No charge could possibly be brought against him.
 
Moreover, by inquiry, they learned that he could not possibly have written the note of appointment signed D. B., and that it was easy for him to prove a certain alibi.
 
All these things had their value and were given due weight by the Bradys.
 
On the other hand, investigation showed that Napoleon Blood was a crotchety, narrow-minded old usurer and that he handled the inheritance of Evelyn Grimm as if it was his own.
 
In fact, now that it was assumed that she was out of existence, the property was likely to revert to him as the next and only heir.
 
All these things the detectives quietly unearthed.
 
Thus they got a line upon the case and were able to form their conclusions.
 
“I can see only one party at the bottom of it all,” said Harry, “and that is Napoleon Blood.”
 
“Precisely!” agreed Old King Brady. “He is our man!”
 
“It is a gigantic black conspiracy.”
 
“Yes.”
 
“But Blood had accomplices.”
 
“Oh, yes. The crime that evening on Fifteenth street could not have been committed by him alone.”
 
So the detectives made their diagnosis. It was in order now to place Blood under close surveillance.
 
The detectives shadowed him persistently.
 
Wherever he went they dogged him and this resulted in bearing fruit.
 
One day Blood left his office in Wall street and made his way to Chatham Square.
 
Here there was a small bar-room known as the “Travelers’ Rest,” and kept by a notorious fence called Sly Jimmie Callahan.
 
6
That the eminently respectable Mr. Blood should visit such a place as Sly Jimmie’s, was odd, to say the least.
 
The detectives felt sure that at last they had a clew.
 
So they kept close behind the notary and followed him into Sly Jimmie’s place.
 
Blood kept his collar turned up and his hat pulled over his eyes as if to escape recognition.
 
He had hardly entered the place, however, when three men stepped up to him.
 
They were a trio of as odd-looking crooks as ever saw the light of day.
 
The detectives knew them in an instant.
 
“By Jupiter! The Tough Trio!” exclaimed Harry.
 
“Whew!” whispered Old King Brady. “When did they return? They have not been seen around New York for five years.”
 
This was true.
 
The three men were a trio of the most dreaded crooks Gotham had ever known.
 
But they had been absent from New York for years.
 
The tall, lantern-jawed fellow with the patch over his eye was Dick Burke. He was a cool, shrewd villain, and the brains of the trio.
 
The hump-backed, heavy-jowled fellow with the scar on his cheek was Dan Collins.
 
He was a cunning sneak thief.
 
The short, pudgy rascal with the leer and St. Vitus dance was Martin Van, as atrocious a monster as ever saw the light of day—a veritable Caliban.
 
It was not easy for this trio to disguise themselves.
 
They couldn’t conceal their identity anywhere, yet they were mysteriously elusive and always fooled the detectives.
 
They managed to perpetrate the blackest of crimes and yet cover their tracks so well that they could not be cornered.
 
The Tough Trio was an appropriate name for them.
 
What could the eminently respectable Mr. Blood be doing in such company?
 
What business could he possibly have with them?
 
This was the question.
 
The detectives, it is hardly necessary to say, were interested.
 
Yet Mr. Blood met the trio familiarly and as if they were old friends.
 
All drank at the bar and then withdrew to a table nearby.
 
The detectives in their clever disguise were not recognized.
 
They also sat at a table and pretended to sip the vile beer which the place afforded.
 
They regretted that not a word of the conversation reached them.
 
It was impossible to get any nearer without exciting suspicion.
 
So the Bradys were compelled to wait and be satisfied with the assumption that something of importance was being discussed.
 
They were content now to accept as a fact that their first theory was absolutely correct.
 
The murder of Evelyn Grimm was the work of Napoleon Blood.
 
The motive was the securing of her inheritance.
 
The Tough Trio were his hired tools.
 
It was a horrible thing to think of. The young girl decoyed by the note of appointment to the Fifteenth street rendezvous on that fearful stormy night in winter. The fearful murder and the burning of the tenement.
 
The work of fiends.
 
Such it was.
 
But the trio were capable of even worse crimes than this. The detectives were assured of this.
 
For over an hour the conference between Blood and the Tough Trio went on.
 
Then they arose and left the place.
 
It was now after dark.
 
Blood shook hands with each and left them. The detectives caught only one sentence uttered by Blood:
 
“They can’t beat us now.”
 
Old King Brady’s jaws snapped.
 
He smiled grimly.
 
“We shall see!” he muttered.
 
“Well,” whispered Harry, “what shall we do?”
 
“Shadow them.”
 
“The trio?”
 
“Yes.”
 
This they proceeded to do. The three villains now walked away toward the Bowery.
 
The detectives shadowed them from one place to another until long past midnight.
 
Then they turned into a cheap concert hall in Bleecker street, known as Dan Maguire’s.
 
The trio seated themselves at a table and sipped their beer.
 
Suddenly Burke arose and walked leisurely to the bar where the detectives stood, apparently engaged in drinking beer.
 
Burke went up to them coolly and said:
 
“How are ye, gents? Won’t ye have a drink with us?”
 
The Bradys were never more astonished in their lives.
 
“Eh?” exclaimed Old King Brady. “You have the advantage of us!”
 
“Have I?” leered the villain. “Well, that’s queer, for I know you!”
 
“You do?”
 
“Yas!”
 
For a moment the old detective was staggered. Harry was also dumfounded.
 
“Come!” continued Burke. “We’d like to talk with ye. Come over an’ sit down.”
 
“I—I can’t leave my friend, thank you,” replied Old King Brady. “It is evident you take me for somebody else.”
 
“Who are ye?”
 
“My name is Schmidt.”
 
“Oh!” said Burke, significantly. “I thought it was Brady!”
 
The Bradys were never more astonished in their lives.
 
7
It was certain that their disguise had been penetrated by the keen rogues and they were known.
 
Concealment was out of the question. Old King Brady saw that a bluff would be foolish.
 
So he said:
 
“All right, Burke. You’re dead onto us.”
 
“Certainly I am!”
 
“What are you doing in New York?”
 
“That’s my affair. What are ye shadowing us for?”
 
“Can’t you guess?”
 
“I wouldn’t ask if I could!”
 
“Well, we lay you up for the gang that burned the Fifteenth street tenement.”
 
Burke only grinned.
 
“That’s jest our luck,” he said. “Everybody lays things to us!”
 
“Well, not without reason.”
 
“Mebbe so! But ye can’t clinch us. Anyhow, come over an’ sit down, we want to talk with ye.”
 
Old King Brady looked at Harry.
 
“All right,” he said, “we’ll do it.”