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220 "Have one here in five minutes, sir," began the taxi starter, grabbing up the telephone.

"Five minutes?" gasped Stuyvie, with a quick glance over his shoulder. "Oh, Lord! Tell one of those chauffeurs out there I'll give him ten dollars to run me to the Grand Central Station. Hurry up!"

"The Grand Central?" exclaimed the detective. "Great Scott, man, you don't have to beat it clear out of town, you know. What are you going to the Station for?"

"For a taxi, you damn' fool," shouted Stuyvie. "Say, who was that man in there?"

"Didn't you know him?"

"Never saw him in my life before,—the blighter. Who is he?"

The detective stared. He opened his mouth to reply, and as suddenly closed it. He, too, knew on which side his bread was precariously buttered.

"I don't know," he said.

"Well, the papers will give his name in the morning,—and mine, too, curse them," chattered Stuyvie.

"Don't you think it," said the other promptly. "There won't be a word about it, take it from me. That guy,—whoever he is,—ain't going to have the newspapers say he was knocked down by a pinhead like you."

The insult passed unnoticed. Stuyrie was gazing, pop-eyed, at a man who suddenly appeared at the mouth of the canopy, a tall fellow in a dripping raincoat.

The newcomer's eyes were upon him. They were steady, unfriendly eyes. He advanced slowly.