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 street near the river bank. He touched the Kid’s arm from behind.

“Let me see you a moment, Brady,” he said, quietly. His eye rested for a second on the long fur scarf thrown stylishly back over Molly’s left shoulder. The Kid, with his old-time police hating frown on his face, stepped a yard or two aside with the detecive.

“Did you go to Mrs. Hethcote’s on West 7—th street yesterday to fix a leaky water pipe?” asked Ransom.

“I did,” said the Kid. ‘“What of it?”

“The lady’s $1,000 set of Russian sables went out of the house about the same time you did. The description fits the ones this lady has on.”

“To h—Harlem with you,” cried the Kid, angrily. “You know I’ve cut out that sort of thing, Ransom. I bought them sables yesterday at—”

The Kid stopped short.

“I know you’ve been working straight lately,” said Ransom. “I’ll give you every chance. I’ll go with you where you say you bought the furs and investigate. The lady can wear ’em along with us and nobody’ll be on. That’s fair, Brady.”

“Come on,” agreed the Kid, hotly. And then he stopped suddenly in his tracks and looked with an odd smile at Molly’s distressed and anxious face.

“No use,” he said, grimly. “They’re the Heth-