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 looked up any of his references? . . . He says he delivered telegrams to us for the Western Union. His father was Robert Emmet Cook, a patrolman, killed about eight years ago. His mother lives in Hudson Street, where she rents furnished rooms. Run it out. ’Phone me right away, about the telegraph company and the police.” He turned abruptly, to scrutinize Barney over his spectacles. And Barney, seeing himself engaged if his references proved satisfactory, did not attempt to suppress his triumphant grin.

“Well,” Babbing said, “you don’t look much like a plant,—”

“No, sir,” Barney admitted, not knowing in the least what was meant. He rose, at the end of a successful interview.

“Sit down,” Babbing said, “your troubles have just begun. Come in!”

That last was in response to a knock at the door; and a man entered on the invitation,