Terry Trimble's Fox Hunt

OW the hands of the big clock on the wall pointed to five minutes of twelve. Midnight sounds came from the street outside—newsboys calling early editions of morning papers; men and women, fashionably dressed, laughing as they left the restaurant opposite, where they had been enjoying after-theater suppers and dancing.

Inside, there was comparative quiet. Policemen held in reserve walked about on tiptoe. City detectives sat quietly before their desks and chewed at black, unlighted cigars, or tugged at their mustaches, or scowled at the wall. Now and then the desk sergeant on duty received a report or answered a telephone message, speaking in a soft voice that was unlike the hearty shout he used generally.

There was an atmosphere of tension about police headquarters, and it found its culmination in the private office of the commissioner. He was pacing the floor, his hands clasped behind his back, his cigar almost bitten through. The chief sat before a desk in a corner, pulling his fingers, as he always did when he was extremely nervous. A captain, a lieutenant of detectives, and half a dozen other officers were in the room.

“Well, we shall know soon!” the commissioner said, glancing again at the clock on the wall. “In exactly a minute it will be midnight. Within half an hour after midnight we shall be informed, I suppose, that there has been another crime big enough to shock the city and make the citizens and opposition newspapers howl about the incompetence of the police department. And they're right—we are incompetent!”

“Oh, I'd not say that!” remarked the chief.

“But I do say it!” the commissioner declared. “This thing has been going on for more than three months, and we are no nearer a solution now than we were when it began. It is not to be endured! I don't blame the newspapers and the taxpayers for howling, We've got to have an end of it!”

“My men have done everything possible,” the chief said. “We have been unable to find the slightest clew. I have taken detectives and patrolmen from other work, given them every chance, and they have all failed. It is not a question of catching a certain man—we do not even know the identity of the man we are after.”

“Well, he's a crook, isn't he?” the commissioner replied. “And you and your men are supposed to know crooks and their methods of work and all about them. Good Lord! You've got a rogues' gallery and photos and finger prints. You've got one detective with a so-called 'camera eye,' and he hasn't done anything.”

“You must understand,” said the chief, holding in his temper, “that now and then a new crook puts in an appearance. If we did not have new ones to contend with all the time, the breed soon would die out. Then there'd be no need for policemen—and you and I would be out of a job.”

“Never mind about the comedy at this juncture,” the commissioner said. “I want this man caught—undersand [sic]? The mayor has been walking around my collar about it. It is utterly preposterous that none of your men can get a line on the fellow. Are we going to sleep until he cleans the city of all its movable valuables? You don't think he is some sort of superman, do you? He is only one person against a whole bunch of you. Get him!”

“We'll do our best, commissioner,” the chief said.

“Better do a little better than your best. How about a handwriting expert?”

“We put one of the best in the country on the case. Every letter that fiend has written to us and to the newspaper editors has been investigated carefully.”

“Well?”

“And the sum total of the report is that they were all written by the same man. We knew as much as that before we called in the expert.”

“I was under the impression that these experts could look at a person's handwriting and tell all about 'em.”

“Certainly,” said the chief. “The expert reports that the person who wrote the letters is well educated—which we knew from reading the letters. Regarding character, the expert says the letters indicate that the writer is cunning, unscrupulous, deceitful. Good Lord! Do you suppose we didn't know that? And so where did the expert get us?”

The commissioner stopped before his desk and picked up an opened letter. He had read it a score of times, but now he read it again aloud, while the chief and the other officers listened carefully.

“I'd like to get my hands on the man!” the commissioner stormed. “He sends us letters like this, and sends duplicates to the newspapers, and then does what he says he will do, and makes fools of us.”

“Speaks of the American police, so he's a foreigner,” the chief declared. “A new one to us; that's why we can't nab him easily.”

“He may have written that for a blind,” the lieutenant of detectives declared. “I have an idea he is a local man.”

“We know every local crook skillful enough to have pulled off the stunts he has pulled off, and we have accounted for every one of them,” the chief reminded him. “Some are in jail and some are being watched. He's no local crook!”

“He's shown at various times that he knows local conditions.”

“Made it his business to find 'em out!” retorted the commissioner. “And I might remark that this conversation captures no criminals. I suppose we have to wait here until this fiend who calls himself The Fox turns another trick, and then go after him. If it's going to be a fox hunt, chief, let's make it a good one. Turn all the hounds loose. Kindly let me be in at the kill!”

“You're not ready to call in Terry Trimble yet?”

“I am not!” the commissioner declared. “I spoke to Trimble about it some time ago, and he said he had no time to waste running down an ordinary crook, who left a trail ten feet wide.”

“He said that, did he?” the chief cried. “He doesn't want to mix in it because he's afraid he'll fail—that's what! Trimble is a good man, but not a bit better than some on my staff!”

“Well, if we don't get The Fox to-night, I'll call Trimble's bluff,” the commissioner said. “I'll catch him at the club and dare him to get into the case. Maybe that'll wake him up. Trail ten feet wide, eh? I can't see it.”

“There isn't any trail at all; that's the trouble,” said the lieutenant of detectives. “He pulls off a stunt and vanishes.”

“Why, in the name of everything, should all ordinary methods fail?” the commissioner asked.

“That's another question!” said the chief. “It is well known that when a crime is committed ten persons will give at least six different descriptions of some person they think did it. Oh, we've had descriptions by the hundred in these cases. And no two of them are alike—no two of them! That is peculiar in itself. The fellow has been seen three times—at least we were led to believe so. One man says he is fat, and another slim; one that he has black hair, and another that his hair is red.”

“Disguise” the commissioner began.

“Rot!” said the detective lieutenant. “There is not to-day a possible disguise that a clever police officer could not penetrate.”

“Speaking of yourself?” The commissioner was angry.

The detective lieutenant flushed, and the chief rushed to the rescue.

“We're getting nervous,” he said. “We'll be at one another's throats in a few minutes! We're letting this fox get our goats, so to speak. Suppose we calm down a bit.”

The commissioner glanced at the clock.

“Ten minutes after twelve,” he said. “I suppose the fiend is at work some place in the city at this moment; he always does as he says he will do. We should get an alarm before long. Then I want every man to get to work. I want this fox run to earth. We've got to nab him.”

There was silence in the private office for a time. The commissioner lighted his cigar, and the lieutenant of detectives followed his example. The chief made a pretense of reading some reports. They were waiting for the alarm they knew might come at any moment.

In the outer office the detectives on duty and the men held in reserve had been watching the clock. The fox was getting on their nerves, too, since their superior officers had sarcastic things to say about their failure to get a clew to follow.

At half past twelve the commissioner threw away the stub of his cigar and sank into a chair before his desk. The chief, just to be contrary, lighted a fresh smoke. The lieutenant of detectives was looking at some new photographs just received for the rogues' gallery, and trying to give the impression that he was not nervous. The other officers simply waited.

“Maybe the fiend changed his plans,” said the chief.

“It'll be the first time, if he has,” the commissioner replied. “You have everything in readiness, I suppose?”

“I have. Men are ready and automobiles are waiting, their engines running and the chauffeurs behind the wheels. In less than two minutes we can”

The door opened and a sergeant came in. They sprang to their feet, reaching for their hats. But it was no alarm. The sergeant merely extended a card toward the commissioner.

“He is waiting, sir,” the sergeant said.

“Well, show him in here.”

The sergeant went out. There was a whimsical smile on the commissioner's face as he looked at the others.

“Mr. Terry Trimble honors us with a visit,” he said.

ERRY TRIMBLE, who called himself a trouble-maker instead of a detective, was an original individual. He also had original methods. He dressed in the latest fashion and wore a monocle, and yawned considerably, as if life bored him and there was nothing of interest in earthly existence. But, for all that, he was alert continually, and certain gentlemen who had presumed upon the foppish clothing and the monocle had learned, to their great surprise, that Terry Trimble had muscles and knew how to handle them.

The sergeant opened the door again, and Terry Trimble stepped into the commissioner's private office, hat and stick held in one hand, his monocle in his eye, a smile upon his lips.

“Quite a gathering of the city's best peace officers,” he said as he shook hands with the commissioner and nodded to the others. “Am I right in supposing that the meeting has something to do with a certain individual who calls himself The Fox?”

“You are,” the commissioner said. “And we hope to have a great deal to do with that certain individual before long.”

“Yes; I understand that he intends to break a few laws this night,” Terry Trimble said.

“How do you happen to know that?”

“I have been honored,” said Trimble, “with a communication from the gentleman—or lady, as the case may be.”

“I guess it's a man, all right. He's been seen half a dozen times, you know.”

“So certain persons have declared, but it may not be the truth,” Trimble said. “Human nature is a frail thing. Lots of people think they see things when they do not.”

“So you got a letter from him?” the commissioner asked.

“Here it is, read it to the assembly.”

The commissioner: read it:

“Nasty missive!” Trimble commented. “Rather puts it up to me, doesn't he? With your kind permission I'll have a go at this fellow.”

The commissioner beamed.

“You most certainly have my permission, Trimble,” he said. “I hope you can get him, but I have grave doubts.”

“I don't fancy there'll be any trouble about it,” declared the trouble maker, with supreme confidence. “While we are waiting for news as to his latest atrocity, suppose you give me what details you have.”

“That's the trouble—we haven't any,” said the chief.

“I know the crimes credited to him, of course, since the newspapers have been full of them,” Trimble said. “And I know that you have been given about a hundred different descriptions of the man.”

“Well, what do you think about it?” the commissioner asked.

“Mr. Fox has a new game,” Trimble declared. “All new games are merely combinations or variations of old ones. There is a key to every puzzle. It is our job to find the key.”

“Some job!” the lieutenant of detectives commented.

“That letter was delivered to me by a messenger about an hour ago,” Terry Trimble went on. “The messenger told Billings, my secretary and assistant, that it was handed him by an old man who was poorly dressed, but who gave him a dollar for delivering it, in addition to the regular fee. I decided that I'd come down here and join the police force for a time.”

“Just how are you going to begin?” the chief wanted to know.

“How can I tell?” Terry Trimble asked, smiling and allowing his monocle to drop. “We'd better wait until we hear what the fellow has done to-night.”

Once more the door of the private office was thrown open, and the sergeant entered.

“Burglar at Doctor Richard Rhone's residence!” he announced. “It was The Fox. He told the doctor so!”

There was an immediate rush through the office and to the street. Terry Trimble sprang into his big limousine and pulled the agitated commissioner in after him. The chauffeur had the machine in motion even while Trimble was calling out the address to him, and the limousine whirled around in the wide street and started at a furious rate of speed toward the residence section of the city. Behind it roared the police department cars carrying the chief and his squad of detectives.

The residence of Doctor Richard Rhone was an old-fashioned brick building in a section of the city which once had been a select residence district. There was a small yard around it, and stores had been constructed on adjoining property. Doctor Richard Rhone, in addition to being a famous surgeon, was known as an eccentric scientist. Though only fifty years of age, he had retired from active practice, declaring that he had all the money he wanted and wished to spend his time in experiments that might benefit the human race.

He was a bachelor, cared nothing for women, and declined, when urged by his friends, to move further uptown and construct a modern residence. The old house and the old location were good enough, he declared. He had his laboratory arranged exactly as he wished it, and, if he moved it his work would suffer for a year or more, was his assertion.

Everybody in the city knew Doctor Richard Rhone as a peculiar individual. Now and then he would indulge in caustic criticism of humanity in general, and an hour later, perhaps, would pick up some poor boy and endow him for life. One group declared him to be merciless in business affairs and money matters, and another mentioned the boys he had sent through college, the hospital beds he had endowed, and the large subscriptions he had made to charitable societies.

Terry Trimble found himself wondering, as the limousine went through the streets, why The Fox, as he called himself, had picked Doctor Richard Rhone for a victim. Heretofore The lox had indulged in crimes of magnitude, not in ordinary burglaries. A bachelor establishment where there was no strong box filled with women's jewels, where there lived only a preoccupied scientist and his few servants, did not seem to promise much for such a criminal as The Fox.

The limousine dashed to the curb and stopped, and Trimble opened the door and got out, turning to give a hand to the commissioner. The police cars pulled in behind, and officers scattered to surround the place. The commissioner led the way up the steps to the front entrance, the chief at his heels, Terry Trimble loitering behind as if bored by it all.

Doctor Richard Rhone himself answered their ring and ushered them into the house, taking them to an old-fashioned front parlor. His mass of gray hair was rumpled, his big eyes were blazing, his manner was that of an excited man, a man jarred out of the ordinary rut of his self-centered existence. He had on dressing gown and slippers, and evidently had been in bed when The Fox elected to pay his visit to the house. Trimble, his monocle adjusted to suit him, leaned against a wall and listened to the story.

“I was in bed and asleep,” Doctor Rhone said. “I worked all last night in the laboratory, and all day, and retired about ten o'clock. I was sleeping soundly, but something awakened me. My bedchamber is on the second floor, and I heard some sort of noise below.”

“What kind of a noise?” the chief asked.

“Just the ordinary sounds a man would make moving around. I thought it was my old butler, and called to him, but there was no answer. I realized that that was peculiar, so got out of bed. Just as I was putting on my dressing gown, the door opened and a masked man stepped in. I had already turned on the lights.”

“What did he say and do?” the chief asked.

“He was chuckling. He covered me with an automatic and ordered me to sit down on the bed. He told me that he was the man known as The Fox, and that he had just robbed my safe.”

“What did he look like?” the commissioner asked.

“Tall, thin; had black eyes that glittered through the mask he wore. He had on a shabby black suit and a soft black hat pulled down so far that I could not see any of his hair.”

“How about his voice?”

“He lisped a bit, and his voice was harsh. I'd be pretty sure to know his voice if I heard it again.”

The commissioner turned to Terry Trimble,

“Want to take the case?” he asked. “You may have full charge.”

“I'll investigate if you don't mind.”

“You know Doctor Rhone?”

“By reputation only,” Trimble said.

The commissioner made the introduction, and Trimble screwed his monocle into his eye again, yawned, then addressed himself to the scientist.

“A few questions,” he said. “You were asleep, and a noise awakened you?”

“Yes.”

“How about your servants?”

“I have but two, Mr. Trimble—an old butler, and an elderly woman who is both housekeeper and cook. Both have been with me for years. Now and then another woman is called in to do cleaning, of course.”

“They didn't hear the burglar? Where are they now?”

“The old butler was bound and gagged and left on his bed, and the cook was rendered unconscious with chloroform,” said Doctor Rhone. “As I said, the burglar entered my bedroom and informed me that he had robbed my safe. He threatened to shoot me if I resisted him or made an outcry. He forced me to stretch myself on the bed, lashed me there with cords from the portières, chloroformed me, and left.”

“And how did you get free?”

“That is peculiar,” said Doctor Rhone. “After rendering me unconscious he must have removed the cords. When I came to, I was not bound. I called to the servants, and they did not answer. I ran to the butler's room and released him and heard his story. We found the cook on her bed, moaning and just returning to consciousness—but she could tell nothing. I presume that she had been chloroformed as she slept.”

“Looks as if your burglar knew all about your household, since he went straight to the servants' rooms and took care of them,” Trimble declared.

“I thought of that, too.”

“And that's all you can tell us?”

“Yes.”

“Um! How do you account for the fact that such a criminal as The Fox picked out your house? It is not a pretentious dwelling, if you will pardon me. Was there anything to lead him to believe you had something in this place worth his stealing? What did he get, by the way?”

“Jewels,” said Doctor Rhone.

“Of great value?”

“Valued at about twenty-five thousand dollars,” the scientist replied. “They were handsome stones, but in old-fashioned settings. They have been in my family for several generations; they belonged to my mother, who gave them to me. I care nothing for jewelry, and so I have kept them as they were, not caring to have them reset. They were in a small compartment at the back of my safe. I didn't look at them twice a year. I just kept them, thinking that, if ill fortune ever came, I could sell them.”

“Who knew you had these jewels?” Trimble asked.

“I do not know. I never spoke of them that I remember. Perhaps I have mentioned them at some time or other.”

“Your servants”

“Are above reproach, sir,” declared Doctor Rhone. “My old butler knew of the jewels, but he has not seen them in years, and I suppose has forgotten all about them. Of course he may have mentioned them in an unguarded moment, and the knowledge have come to this criminal.”

“Anything else taken?” Trimble asked.

“A small amount in currency—less than a hundred dollars.”

“That is all?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?” Trimble demanded. “Have you made a complete investigation since the robbery? How about your laboratory? Did you not, perhaps, have a valuable formula or two there?”

A look of alarm came into the face of the scientist.

“I never thought of that!” he gasped.

He led the way to the second floor, where the laboratory was situated. The door was locked, but Doctor Rhone unlocked it and hurried inside. One glance seemed to suffice him.

“Nothing has been touched. The man never entered here,” he declared.

“Well, that is fortunate,” said Terry Trimble.

They went back down the stairs and looked at the safe. It stood open, and some papers were scattered on the floor before it. Trimble gave it scarcely a glance.

“How about finger prints?” he asked the chief.

“The Fox must use gloves. We've never been able to get any strange finger prints.”

“He must be a good cracksman,” added Trimble. “He simply worked the combination and opened the box—didn't have to use force.”

“It is an old safe,” the scientist apologized. “I never anticipated a burglar.”

“And yet you kept a fortune in jewels there,” Trimble said. “That was careless. Jewels insured?”

“No.”

“Let's go to your bedroom.”

Again Doctor Rhone led the way to the second floor. Trimble went into the bedroom and looked around carefully. The bed gave the appearance of having been occupied recently. On the floor was a small bottle that reeked of chloroform; a towel was beside it; and the portière cords were beside the bed.

“Where did that towel come from?” Trimble asked.

“My own bathroom. He stepped in and got it, forced me to lie down, drenched the towel with chloroform after I was bound, and put it over my mouth and nostrils.”

“Were you ill when you recovered consciousness?”

“A slight nausea from the chloroform,” replied Doctor Rhone. “The whole thing is rather humiliating. I am a strong, vigorous man for my age, and perhaps should have raised an outcry or attempted a capture, but he held a gun on me all the time.”

“No use in a man throwing his life away,” Trimble said. “Wonder why he took the trouble to come upstairs and see you.”

“He was boasting; said he always wanted to make the acquaintance of a person he robbed. I suppose he wanted to show that he was a daring criminal, not like the usual run of them.”

Trimble stepped into the bathroom, but came out almost immediately.

“Do you smoke?” he asked the scientist.

“A pipe.”

“Cigarettes?”

“Never. I dislike them. Neither do I smoke cigars.”

“Butler smoke?”

“Just a pipe, in his own room in the evening.”

“I found this cigarette stub on the floor of the bathroom,” Trimble said, exhibiting it. “It is an ordinary brand, of which hundreds of thousands of packages are sold annually. So that'll not help us much, even if The Fox did drop it.”

“He must have dropped it, or it wouldn't be there,” declared the scientist. “I remember now that he was smoking a cigarette. I was rather bewildered—didn't think to mention it before.”

“I thought you said that he was masked.”

“A black mask that fitted his face closely,” said Doctor Rhone. “It seemed to be attached to his hat in front.”

“Did he have the nerve to raise his mask and smoke?”

“No, sir. As I remember now, there was a tiny slit over the mouth.”

“Oh! A regular, serviceable mask, then, instead of a makeshift, like a handkerchief?”

“It appeared so, sir.”

“A dangerous thing—hard for him to explain if found in his possession,” Terry Trimble declared.

He wrapped the cigarette stub in a bit of paper and put it carefully into his pocket. Then he asked to see the butler.

The aged servitor said merely that he had been awakened by a man who held a gun at his head. He was bound and gagged and stretched on his bed and lashed there. The binding was done with rope which the burglar took from beneath his coat, the gagging with a towel. Trimble inspected the rope; it was an ordinary clothesline.

“Did he say anything to you?”

“Just growled that he'd shoot if I so much as whimpered, sir,” the butler replied.

The agitated cook was questioned, too, but she knew nothing except that she returned to consciousness and was ill. Doctor Rhone and the butler had told her what had happened, and she heard the doctor telephoning for the police.

Trimble led the way to the first floor again and stopped in the hallway before the front door.

“Might as well let your men go back to headquarters, chief,” he said. “I'll handle this alone, and in my own way.”

“Pardon me, but I—I'd prefer that more men worked on the case,” Doctor Rhone said. “Those jewels”

“I dont [sic] need any help except Billings, my regular assistant,” Trimble declared.

“It looks like a difficult affair, Trimble,” the commissioner said. “What do you think about it?”

“There are some rather unusual features,” Trimble replied, “but I see nothing difficult about it.”

“You mean you think that you can catch The Fox?”

“Why, certainly!” Trimble said, screwing his monocle into his eye. “Of all the animals known to man, the fox leaves one of the best trails. There is just a chance that this particular fox overrates his own cunning and sagacity.”

“Do you mean to say,” asked the chief, “that, since we have been in this house, you have found a clew?”

“Why, yes—several of them! Haven't you?” Terry Trimble wanted to know.

The chief of police grew red in the face and led the way toward the front door.

URING the journey back to police headquarters Terry Trimble sat in one corner of the limousine among the cushions, puffed furiously at a cigarette, and seemed disinclined to conversation, though the commissioner asked a multitude of questions and continued to ask them though the trouble maker replied in monosyllables only.

Headquarters reached, they got out and went into the commissioner's private office, the chief accompanying them. Trimble tossed his hat and stick on a table and sat down before the desk.

“Let me see some of those letters you received from The Fox,” he requested.

The chief placed them before him, and the trouble maker inspected them carefully and compared them with the one he had received by messenger.

“Same person wrote them all,” he stated.

From one of his coat pockets he took a crumpled sheet of paper upon which there was writing. He compared this with the letters, shook his head, bent over the desk and compared them again. The commissioner and the chief watched him closely.

“Wrong guess to start with,” Trimble complained, and put the piece of paper back in his pocket, together with the letter he had received.

“Can you give us an idea what” the chief began.

“I don't like to talk until I know what I am talking about,” replied Trimble. “Seems to me there is something peculiar about this case. But I think The Fox can be landed soon. I have a little theory; that is all. There are many things I shall have to discover before this theory will work out properly. I'm in charge, am I?”

“You are,” said the commissioner. “Want any help?”

“Not at present. If I do later, I'll call upon you. Trouble is, I fancy, your police have the idea that this Mr. Fox is more cunning than he really is. I'm afraid you've been overlooking things. Up at the residence of Doctor Richard Rhone, now, you overlooked several things.”

“What, for instance?” the chief asked.

“You were all excited about the robbery and the fact that The Fox had done it. You hung upon the words of Richard Rhone and gulped when he told what had been stolen. You failed to ascertain the thing that, in an ordinary case, you would have ascertained first.”

“What's that?”

“How the burglar got into the house,” said Terry Trimble.

The commissioner and the chief looked at each other and gasped, while Terry Trimble adjusted his monocle and grinned at them.

“It won't take us long to find out that,” said the chief, reaching one hand toward a row of buttons.

“Don't trouble,” Trimble interrupted. “It makes no difference, really. We know he did get in, and later escaped, according to Doctor Rhone. Finding what particular window he jimmied won't help us locate The Fox. You may be sure he didn't leave finger prints or footprints, or anything like that. Well, it's a little past two o'clock in the morning, and I think I'll leave you. Confounded nuisance, this case! I was reading some excellent poetry when I received that note from The Fox. Serve him right if I run him to earth and he gets twenty years!”

“What do you—er—intend to do?” the chief asked.

“Catch Mr. Fox,” Trimble replied. “Good night!”

He left the office and hurried to his limousine, giving his orders to the chauffeur in low tones. Then he sprang in, and the big car turned around and started up the avenue at an ordinary rate of speed. Behind the limousine trailed a dilapidated taxicab that had been standing at the corner.

Terry Trimble pulled down the shades at the windows, made sure that they were tightly drawn, and then bent forward and pressed against the panel before him. An aperture yawned beneath the driver's seat.

Then Trimble quickly completed the transformation that he had engineered so many times. His suit, shoes, hat, gloves, stick, and monocle disappeared in the opening. He took therefrom an old black suit, soft-soled shoes, and a cap, and donned them quickly. He was no longer the dudelike Trimble, but an inconspicuous man who would attract no attention on the street.

Fully dressed and the aperture closed, he raised the tiny curtain at the back and glanced down the street. Then he bent forward and tapped a signal on the glass in front.

The chauffeur knew that signal. It meant that, at the next corner, he was to turn to the right, slow down for an instant, and then proceed at the regular speed. He obeyed implicitly. Terry Trimble opened the door of the limousine, jumped out, slammed the door behind him, dashed across the sidewalk and stepped into a dark doorway while the big car went on down the street as if Terry Trimble still was a passenger.

Crouching in the dark vestibule, Trimble watched the dilapidated taxicab lurch around the corner and follow the limousine. He looked quickly up and down the street and saw nobody. As the taxicab passed he darted silently from the doorway, sprang up behind, clutched at the extra tire carried there, and made himself secure.

His own chauffeur, he knew, would return to the garage in the rear of the big bachelor apartment house where Trimble had his rooms. The taxicab seemed determined to follow. The limousine turned into the end of the alley, and the taxi ran up to the curb and stopped. Terry Trimble left it, darted across the sidewalk, and took up a position a few feet away in the dark tradesmen's entrance to the building.

A figure crept from the taxicab and ran to the mouth of the alley. Trimble got but a glance as this person passed him. He looked at the taxicab and saw that the chauffeur was down from his seat, and lifted the hood, and was inspecting his engine.

Terry Trimble left the seclusion of the dark doorway and followed the other. Into the alley they went, Trimble seeking the shadows. The one ahead was bent upon keeping out of sight, too. The garage seemed to call for all his attention.

“Waiting to see me come out,” Trimble mused. “Wants to know whether I go inside and to bed, or remain out and work. As a trailer, this hireling of The Fox is a rank failure.”

He saw that the one ahead had reached a position where the interior of the garage could be seen plainly. Trimble's chauffeur turned the limousine over to the night attendant, removed his gauntlets, and crossed the alley to enter the apartment house and go to his own room in the servants' quarters. The watcher evidently was surprised not to see the detective leave the limousine.

As Trimble watched, the other turned around and started toward him and the end of the alley, keeping in the darkness as much as possible. As he passed, Trimble sprang out, grasped his shoulders with both hands, and hurled him back against a wall.

“Just a moment!” the trouble-maker said. “Allow me to ask you why you give my limousine so much attention. It is rather a peculiar hour to be admiring a motor car.”

The other was short and slight and had the face of a boy of tender years. Trimble inspected that face carefully and then demanded an answer. But none was forthcoming.

“I suppose I shall have to hand you over to the police,” Trimble said.

His prisoner began to struggle then, kicking, trying to bite, attempting to jerk away and get free. Terry Trimble forced the youth back against the wall again.

But the struggle was not over. Mention of the police seemed to have filled the prisoner with great fear. He fought like a man of strength, and Trimble was forced to make an attempt to pinion his prisoner's arms. He dodged a kick, reached forward, grasped a shoulder, and his prisoner's cap came off. Long wavy hair fell down. The prisoner was not a boy, but a woman!

Aghast, Trimble stepped back. His prisoner crouched against the wall, starting to sob.

“I beg your pardon. I did not know that I was battling with one of the fair sex,” Trimble said. “This is rather peculiar, you know. Why are you masquerading in men's clothes, and why were you following my limousine? Why do my movements prove of interest to you?”

“Did I say that I was interested?”

Her voice was rich, deep, a charming voice, Terry Trimble thought. And her face, now that he saw it in the light from the garage, was certainly not a vicious one. She looked to be a girl of about twenty. Trimble judged that she was a young woman of education and refinement.

“Your actions prove it,” Trimble said.

Suddenly she darted away from him. He sprang after her and caught her, but this time she fought like a maniac, and the trouble-maker, remembering that she was a woman, could not use methods he would have employed had his opponent been a man. She screamed once and continued to fight.

Suddenly the chauffeur ran in from the mouth of the alley and joined the fray. Trimble found that he was no mean antagonist. He saw the girl pick up her cap and rush out of the alley toward the taxicab. The chauffeur hurled him backward in that first wild rush, then turned to flee. Trimble was after him in an instant.

When he reached the mouth of the alley he knew that he would not make a capture. The girl had sprung behind the wheel, the engine was going, and the taxicab was in motion. The man Trimble was pursuing sprang up beside her, and the machine dashed way [sic].

Terry Trimble knew well that he could not get a car out of the garage in time to catch them before they were lost in the maze of streets. He did not empty his automatic pistol after the disappearing taxicab. it would avail him nothing to wound one of them; he would only arouse the neighborhood.

ERRY TRIMBLE watched the lurching taxicab out of sight, and then walked rapidly down the street away from the apartment house that he called home. The knowledge that he was being followed, and the desire to learn who was following him, had thrown him off the trail for a time, but now he was back again.

He hurried along the street for several blocks and came to an all-night taxicab stand. Engaging a chauffeur he directed him to drive to a certain corner some distance away. There Terry Trimble paid the chauffeur and went on up the street. He had left the taxicab within two blocks of the residence of Doctor Richard Rhone.

It was within an hour of dawn now, and Trimble was eager to be at work. He turned into an alley, and so reached the rear of the old-fashioned house. There was a wall along the alley, and Terry Trimble scaled it. He found himself in an old-time garden that had been constructed between the rear of the house and the alley wall.

Keeping in the shadows Trimble darted from bush to bush, and came to the rear of the building. He inspected the windows and doors, looked at the water pipes—concerned himself with the various ways in which a burglar or second-story man could make entrance.

No light gleamed from any of the windows when Trimble started his investigation, but half an hour before dawn one showed suddenly in the room that Trimble knew was the laboratory of the scientist.

Then the shade of the window was pulled down, but only to within four or five inches of the bottom. Terry Trimble glanced up quickly, and then crouched beside the wall of the house in the darkness and removed his shoes. An instant later he was going up a water pipe that had been constructed to carry rainwater from the roof to the sewer, and which ran within three feet of the laboratory window.

Trimble's athletic training and good physical condition helped him now. Foot by foot he made his way upward, glad that the store building on the lot adjoining cast a friendly shadow that effectually shielded him from the gaze of anybody who might pass in the street. He reached a level with the window finally, bent out as far as possible, and looked beneath the bottom of the shade.

Doctor Richard Rhone was in his laboratory, in his usual working costume, bending over a maze of test tubes and putting notes into a little book. Trimble watched him for some time and then started back down the pipe. He had decided that the scientist, unable to sleep after the excitement of the night, had gone to his laboratory to spend the hours in work, instead of tossing about on his bed.

At the foot of the pipe again Trimble put on his shoes, and then started around to the front of the house. He reached the street, looked carefully at the front of the building, and then walked briskly toward the nearest car line.

Half an hour later, just as day was breaking, he let himself into his own suite, and Billings, his secretary and assistant, appeared before him, trying to stifle a yawn.

“Shall you retire now, sir?” Billings asked.

“No, Billings. Order a pot of strong coffee from the restaurant below. We have an interesting case, Billings, and I may have need of you before it is ended. A very interesting case, Billings, or I miss my guess. The police, as usual, are shooting wide of the mark. Of course, I may be wrong, but”

“That would be highly unusual, sir,” Billings offered; and went to the telephone to order the coffee.

Terry Trimble took a cold shower, drank the coffee and ate some dry toast, exercised for ten minutes, and then dressed.

“Billings, I am after The Fox,” he said. “He is a very clever animal, but even a fox may make mistakes.'

“Yes, sir.”

“And it is to my interest to take advantage of any mistakes he may make. The Fox entered the residence of Doctor Richard Rhone last night, and, so the scientist tells us, took some jewels from the safe. They were heirlooms in old-fashioned settings, valued at about twenty-five thousand dollars.”

“Isn't it rather a small affair to interest you, sir?” Billings asked.

“It is not the theft that interests me; it is The Fox,” Trimble declared. “He has as good as issued a challenge for me to nab him. Can't refuse a challenge of that sort, can we, Billings? Certainly not!”

“Is there anything that you wish me to do, sir?”

“I am going out, and I want you to come along. Everything is to be in plain sight for the time being, Billings. We are after The Fox, and we do not care what man knows it. You may inform the newspapers that I have said I would run The Fox to earth. I want that wily animal to know that I am on his trail. I want him to feel that it is a battle of wits. Billings, I have an idea that he is the sort of man who will prove daring. He will try to show the public that I am unable to pit my wits against his, and he may make some mistake that will be of great help to us.”

“Yes, sir. I'll telephone to the evening newspapers as soon as the editors are on duty, sir.”

“Ready? Trimble asked. “Then touch the button for the limousine, and we'll go. Put those clothes of mine back into the car, of course; I never know when I may need them. There is absolutely no secrecy about this trip, Billings. Mr. Terry Trimble and his able assistant are going fox hunting.”

Billings touched the button that warned the chauffeur that he was needed immediately; and then he went down to the street with Terry Trimble, who gave instructions for the limousine to be driven to the residence of Doctor Richard Rhone.

When the address was reached, however, Terry Trimble made no attempt to seek an interview with the scientist. He paraded around the neighborhood, acting very much like a silly ass. He twirled his stick, screwed his monocle into his eye, and allowed his lower jaw to sag as he contemplated the doctor's old-fashioned residence. Meanwhile, his gorgeous car, with his monogram on the door, stood at the curb for all the neighborhood to see.

Billings was mystified, but he had been with Terry Trimble long enough to have learned never to be surprised at anything the trouble-maker did. Billings simply decided that his employer was playing some deep game, and let it go at that.

Trimble was noticed. The later editions of the morning papers had carried news of the robbery at Doctor Rhone's, and the scientist's neighbors soon knew that there was a famous detective on the scene. They gathered at the curb, surveyed the limousine, watched Trimble, and made remarks to the effect that he did not give the appearance of being a clever and able man; all of which caused the chauffeur to curl his lips in scorn.

The trouble-maker had been fussing around the place for almost half an hour before Doctor Rhone emerged from the house and approached him.

“Is there any help that I can give you, Mr. Trimble?” he asked.

“We neglected to ask you last night how the burglar got into the house,” Trimble said.

“By this window on the front porch. It is a French window, as you can see, and the latch is not secure. This part of the porch, too, is protected from the arc light at the corner of the street. Getting into my house was not a very difficult task, I fancy.”

Trimble looked at the catch of the window and saw that it had been pried loose. He seemed to spend a great deal of time investigating it. Then he faced the scientist again.

“On second thought, are you quite sure about your two servants?” he inquired.

“Absolutely, Mr. Trimble. You forget that I saw the burglar and heard him speak. He certainly was a man, and he certainly did not resemble my old butler.”

“I do not suspect your butler of being the burglar,” Trimble said. “But is it not possible that he tipped the burglar off—gave him information regarding the jewels, and all that?”

“He'd be the last man on earth to do such a thing,” Doctor Rhone said. “This isn't what you detectives call an inside job, if that is what you mean.”

“I always consider every possibility,” Trimble said as if apologizing for suspecting the old butler. “By the way, did you look around the house this morning and find anything else missing?”

“Nothing else,” said Doctor Rhone.

“Um!” Trimble grunted. “I guess that is all for the present, doctor. If I need any further information, I'll call upon you again.”

He went back to the limousine, and a mystified Billings followed at his heels. Billings was unable to find any sense in that conversation. As a usual thing, Trimble said but little and asked but few questions.

“Do you think that I am making an ass of myself, Billings?” Trimble asked. “Don't worry if my methods in this case are not usual. Fact is, I just wanted to see how Doctor Rhone was this morning after the excitement of the robbery. It's a crime, Billings, to keep a small fortune in gems in a tin box of a safe in an old house where any of the windows may be opened easily, isn't it?”

“Yes, sir,” Billings said.

“While I wait in the limousine, Billings, you go back to the house and get from Doctor Rhone a descriptive list of the jewels he had stolen. Hurry, please.”

Billings hastened to the front door of the house, and Terry Trimble stepped into the limousine, lighted a cigarette, pulled his hat down over his eyes, and seemed to be thinking deeply.

It was some time before Billings returned, but when he did he had the list written by Doctor Richard Rhone. Trimble glanced at it, and then took time to read it carefully.

“Yes, they would total about twenty-five thousand,” the trouble-maker said. “I take it for granted that the doctor's memory is excellent, and that he has given us a correct list. Read it, Billings, and familiarize yourself with it. I want you to look for those gems later.”

“The usual pawnshop and 'fence' route, sir?”

“I scarcely think you'd find them there, Billings. Suppose you try some of the legitimate merchants, especially those who purchase old-fashioned jewelry.”

He gave the chauffeur directions, and the limousine ran slowly to the corner and turned into the next street. Terry Trimble, glancing through the window, inspected the other buildings in the block. The machine came to the second street, and turned toward the wide avenue that ran through the business section of the city.

Suddenly Trimble rapped a signal to the chauffeur, and the car turned to the curb. At the same time he grasped Billings by the arm.

“See that young woman, Billings?” he asked. “Look at her well. About two o'clock this morning, dressed in man's clothing, she followed me in a taxicab from police headquarters to my home.”

She was not dressed in man's clothing now, but as a shopgirl. Terry Trimble recognized her only because he had looked intently at her face. She was on the opposite side of the street, and there was considerable early morning traffic. She did not seem to see the big limousine.

Both Trimble and Billings watched her closely. She hurried down the street until she was almost opposite the car, and then she turned and ran quickly up the steps to the front door of one of the buildings.

“Cheap rooming house, sir,” Billings said.

“Sure you'd know her if you saw her again?”

“Yes, sir. There is something attractive and unusual about her face, sir.”

“Quite so!” Trimble said. “I'm going to investigate a bit, Billings. Drive on around the corner, and wait for me there.”

Trimble sprang out of the car and whispered his orders to the chauffeur, and as the limousine went on down the street, he hurried to the door of the rooming house.

He opened the door to find himself in a tiny office, where a middle-aged man sat behind a desk.

“Proprietor?” Trimble asked.

“I am, sir.”

Trimble showed a detective's shield that he used on occasions such as this, and the man behind the desk recoiled.

“I always obey the laws, sir,” he began whining. “My guests are all law-abiding people.”

“Have I intimated otherwise?” Trimble asked. “If you are a good citizen you'll not hesitate to answer questions. For instance, I want to know the name of the young woman who just entered.”

“Surely the police can want nothing with her, sir,” said the man behind the desk. “She is a thoroughly respectable young lady. Her name is Jennie Croft.”

“Tell me about her.'

“She lives in a suite on the first floor, sir, with her uncle. He is an elderly man, and his name is Peter Snard.”

“What's his business?”

“He doesn't seem to have any, sir. I think he has quite a bit of money. He is a peculiar old man, and seems to do a lot of good.”

“Does a lot of good? How do you mean?”

“He helps the poor and unfortunate, sir. They come to him continually. He is preaching at them all the time, telling them to better themselves. He wanted the suite on the ground floor so he could receive them with least inconvenience.”

“Peculiar, is he?” Trimble asked.

“Very much so, sir, but excellent pay and causes no trouble, and so I am glad to have him here. He is gone a great deal of the time. Now and then I'll not see him for days at a stretch. I think he goes away to attend to his business interests. He told me once that he had no relative in the world except his niece. She keeps house for him, you might say. Surely the police have nothing against her, sir? She is such a nice young lady,'

“I saw her on the street,” Trimble said. “She looks a great deal like a woman who is under suspicion of being implicated in a crime. A little talk with her will satisfy me more than anything else. Tell her, please, that a gentleman wishes to speak to her a moment.”

The proprietor of the rooming house left his desk and hurried down the hall to knock at a door. Trimble heard him speaking, and almost immediately he returned.

“This way, sir,” he said. “I trust that you will not frighten her, sir.”

The door of the suite stood open, and the proprietor led the way inside. The girl was standing before the table in the center of the living room of the suite, a puzzled expression on her face. She invited Trimble to be seated. Her manner was that of a woman receiving a man she never had seen before.

“I understand that you are a detective,” she said. “I cannot imagine what it is you wish with me, unless it is information about some of the poor unfortunates my uncle and I have been helping.”

Terry Trimble adjusted his monocle and regarded her intently, and then cleared his throat and glanced at the landlord with an expression in his face that was full of meaning.

“I'll speak with you alone, Miss Croft, if you please,” Trimble said.

The landlord grinned, bowed, turned and went back into the hall, and was careful to close the door after him. Nor did he remain standing just outside it in an effort to overhear the conversation. The landlord had not relished the gleam that was in Terry Trimble's eye.

ENNIE CROFT looked across at Trimble and smiled.

“Well, sir?” she said.

“So we meet a second time, my dear young woman,” Terry Trimble replied. “If you will allow me to say so, the costume you now are wearing is an improvement over the one you wore when last we met. It becomes you much better.”

“You must be making a mistake, sir,” Jennie Croft replied, meeting his eyes frankly. “We never have met before, have we? I have no recollection of it.”

“We met about two o'clock this morning, or a little later, when you did me the honor of chasing my limousine with a taxicab, upon the rear of which I happened to be riding so as to watch you,” Trimble told her. “We had a little battle in an alley, if you'll remember, and a chauffeur aided you to escape me.”

“Why, of all the preposterous stories!”

“And, at that time, you were dressed in man's clothing,” Trimble added.

“The very idea! I scarcely think that you would be able to convince anybody of that wild story,” said Jennie Croft. “Can you get the chauffeur to verify it? Was there anybody with you at the time?”

Terry Trimble allowed his monocle to drop from his eye as he smiled at her.

“So that is the way of it, eh?' he said. “You're going to brazen it out? Very well, my dear Miss Croft—as you are known here. We are not asking anybody else to believe it, you understand. But you know—and I know! So we'll just drop that subject for the time being and take up another. Being an officer, I have the right to ask questions of a sort, and if you are an honest and innocent young woman you'll not hesitate to answer them.”

“What is it that you wish to know?” she asked. “I am always ready to help.”

“Who are you?” Terry Trimble asked, bending forward and regarding her with a frown. “What are you doing here? With whom do you live? Tell me all about yourself.”

“My name is Jennie Croft, as the landlord informed you,” she replied. “I live here with my uncle, Peter Snard. He has ample funds, though I do not know much about his business. I think that he has investments in some other city, for now and then he goes away for a few days, as though to attend to business and get money.”

“Then why are you living in such a place as this, if he has plenty of money?” Trimble asked.

“My uncle is a peculiar man,” she answered. “He does not believe in wasting money on luxuries. In his youth he had much misfortune. I am his only remaining relative. He has fought the world from boyhood, and now, though he is not old, yet he is worn out. He is spending the remainder of his life in doing good.”

“In what way?”

“He aids unfortunates who really wish to do better in life,” said Jennie Croft. “I do a great deal of the work for him. We give them money now and then if they really need it and are unable to work for a time, and we get positions for those who want work and are not able to find it themselves. My uncle, to my knowledge, has helped several former convicts to find the right way of living. They come to him here freely and tell him their troubles and problems.”

“A very pretty arrangement,” the trouble-maker said. “And where is your uncle now?”

“I do not know exactly, sir. He said that he would be gone for a few days. I suppose that he is away on business. He may return at any time. Why should you question me, sir? We have done nothing that is wrong.”

“Then you have nothing to fear,” Terry Trimble declared, smiling at her.

Their eyes clashed for an instant.

“Is there any other information that I can give you?” the girl asked then.

“Not at present, I believe. But I may be interested in some of those unfortunates you and your uncle are helping, you know. Some of them may be deceiving you,” Trimble said. “I'd like to meet your uncle and have a talk with him.”

“Possibly you can do so later. But I feel quite sure that all the persons we are helping are worthy,” said Jennie Croft. “I'd dislike to have them annoyed.”

“They can be investigated in such a way that they will not be annoyed,” Trimble replied. “Would you mind writing down for me the names and addresses of some of them? I promise to be careful in my investigation.

She was not disconcerted in the least by his request. There was not the slightest hesitancy in her manner as she got pencil and a sheet of paper and started writing. She had not been telling a falsehood, then. Persons really were being helped; she was not afraid to give their names and addresses.

“They're probably doing this philanthropic work as a blind,” Trimble told himself.

She handed him the sheet of paper, and he thanked her and folded it and put it into his pocket.

“That is only a partial list,” she told him. “I have given you a few names—some of the people with whom I have been working myself. My uncle can give you more when he returns, especially of the men. I work with the women and the elderly men mostly, and my uncle attends to the young men, and especially the former convicts.”

“I'll be glad to see your uncle when he returns and to talk to him,” Trimble said.

“He is coming and going all the time,” said Jennie Croft. “He is peculiar, rather eccentric, because he had so much trouble and sorrow in his youth. If you do meet him, and are assured that he is law-abiding, it would be a great kindness if you told him that he is doing excellent work.”

Trimble bowed and took his departure.

“She is one of the finest little hypocrites I ever met,” he told himself as he walked down the hall. “I give her credit for being clever, too.”

The landlord was behind his desk again, and there was nobody else in the office.

“I am going to send one of my men in here,” Trimble told him. “You are to allow him to sit behind the counter, as if he were a friend of yours.”

“I—I don't want any trouble in my house, sir!” the landlord declared.

“Have I intimated that there is going to be trouble?” Trimble demanded. “I have been talking to Miss Croft, and she has explained about the philanthropic work she and her uncle are doing. We are just making sure that they are not being imposed upon; understand?”

“Oh, yes, sir!”

“I'll send in my man immediately. You are not to tell anybody that he is an officer.”

“I understand, sir.”

Trimble hurried out to the street and looked toward the corner. Billings was there, waiting and watching for a signal, and Trimble gave him one. In a moment Billings stood beside him.

“Remember that girl?” Trimble asked.

“Oh, yes, sir.”

“She lives in a first-floor suite at the end of the hall. Go in and sit behind the counter and talk to the old landlord—I have explained to him—and watch the door of her suite. If that girl leaves I want you to follow her. And watch for visitors to the suite, also. I want you to gather all the information possible concerning her; understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

Billings hurried up the steps and entered the rooming house, and Terry Trimble walked down the street to the limousine, got in, sat back in a corner, and took from his pocket the list Jennie Croft had written for him.

Then he chuckled and took from an inner pocket of his coat two of the letters that had been written by The Fox. He compared them with the list carefully, examining them through a magnifying glass. Then he put the glass away again, folded the list and the letters together and returned them to his pocket, looked at his reflection in one of the mirrors in the limousine, and grinned.

“So!” he said, adjusting his monocle. “Miss Jennie Croft, as she calls herself, wrote The Fox's letters, eh? Peculiar, to say the least! The innocent and helpful young woman!”

An ordinary police detective might have confronted Jennie Croft with the evidence and demanded an explanation, taking it for granted that her uncle, Peter Snard, was The Fox, and that she aided him in his work. But Terry Trimble was not a police detective, and he had estimated Jennie Croft to be a clever young woman. He knew that he would gain nothing by confronting her with the evidence. He would simply compel her, by such an action, to withhold or destroy evidence, and possibly put Peter Snard on his guard so that the case might come to nothing. Terry Trimble did not care to make a move before he had something more definite to go on; and, moreover, there was yet another angle to the case that puzzled him considerably and called for delicate work in its solution.

He read again the list Jennie Croft had given him, instructed the chauffeur, and continued his investigation. There were half a dozen addresses, but Trimble managed to visit all but one of them within two hours and a half,

He found his people in alley shacks, in the back rooms of tenement buildings, always in surroundings of squalor. Two of them were elderly men, one blind, and they were loud in their praises of Peter Snard. Others were women who had met Peter Snard, but had had their dealings more directly with Jennie Croft.

When Trimble had finished he knew that these were legitimate charity cases. All were being aided for the present, and, at the same time, being taught how to make their own living and get some enjoyment out of life. Terry Trimble explained to them, in a way to keep them from being frightened and to prevent the arousing of suspicion, that he was merely ascertaining whether they were worthy persons, as the authorities were looking for somebody who had imposed on Peter Snard. That made them loosen their tongues and tell the stories of their lives, and Trimble ascertained that all were identified with the underworld more or less, but were unfortunate rather than criminal.

The trouble-maker was smiling as he went down the last alley toward the limousine.

“Genuine philanthropic work—and a perfect blind,” he told himself. “It's a deep game that this Mr. Peter Snard is playing, or I miss a guess!”

Trimble directed the chauffeur to return to the neighborhood of the rooming house, for it was his intention to see Billings and learn whether he had discovered anything of importance.

Three blocks from the rooming house Trimble happened to glance toward the walk and saw Miss Jennie Croft. The young woman was walking down the street rapidly, going toward the rooming house. The trouble-maker glanced back along the street to locate Billings, who should have been shadowing. But he did not see Billings in any direction.

“Billings must be becoming an expert if I can't spot him myself,” Trimble mused.

He forgot Billings for the time being and gave all his attention to Jennie Croft. She hurried on down the street, paying not the slightest attention to those she passed. It was evident that she had been out on some errand and was merely returning home.

“Billings may have something interesting to report,” the trouble-maker thought.

Jennie Croft came to the steps that led to the entrance of the rooming house, skipped up them, and opened the front door to disappear inside. Trimble signaled the chauffeur; the big limousine stopped at the curb. The trouble-maker got out and glanced down the street. Billings was not in sight.

Trimble went up the steps and into the small office. There was Billings, standing beside the landlord behind the counter, a puzzled expression in his face. He whirled toward Trimble, stopped beside him, and spoke in a whisper.

“There is something peculiar here, sir,” Billings said. “I'll swear that woman never left her suite and came through this hall, and the landlord tells me that there is but the one door. Yet just now she came in from the street and entered her rooms. She did not go out, sir—but she returned!”

ILLINGS, you are an utter ass!” he said. “If she returned she certainly went out. Have you been asleep, Billings?”

“No, sir."

“You've been here all the time? You haven't gone down the street for cigarettes, or anything like that?”

“No, sir,” declared Billings, who did not smoke cigarettes because of throat trouble, and who knew that Terry Trimble was aware of it. He knew now that Trimble was speaking for the benefit of the landlord.

“We are done here for the time being, Billings,” Trimble went on, “You'll come with me, please.”

Billings hung his head and followed Terry Trimble out to the limousine, and the chauffeur was given orders to drive home. When they were some blocks from the rooming house, Trimble spoke again.

“There are a number of peculiar things about this case, Billings,” he said, “but I think that it can be solved within a few hours. I did not get any sleep last night. I'd like to end this affair before daylight to-morrow morning and get to bed. So she did not go out, but she returned, eh? Um! You don't suppose there are two of her, Billings—twins, or something like that?”

“I scarcely think so, sir,” Billings replied. “The young woman has a large mole beneath her right ear. It scarcely would be duplicated in a twin.”

“I am glad to see that you are observant, Billings,” Trimble said. “Observation is a great thing. Did you, by the way, observe anything else of importance?”

“The young woman had been writing letters or something. As she passed I noticed an ink stain on her forefinger.”

“Excellent! Was it green ink, Billings?”

“It was, sir.”

“And do you remember that the letter The Fox wrote me was written in green ink?”

“So it was, sir.”

“We may take it for granted, then, that the young woman known as Jennie Croft wrote a letter, and that when she went out she mailed it, and that the chief of police, or some newspaper, or possibly I shall receive a letter from The Fox in the late mail this afternoon.”

“I shouldn't be surprised, sir.”

“When I was in that suite a few hours ago, I noticed a writing table in the front room, Billings. Ordinary black ink was on it. It is possible, of course, that she would keep the green ink hidden. It also is possible, Billings my boy, that the green ink is kept in some other place, and that she went to that place from the suite and wrote her letter.”

“You mean there must be another exit to the suite?”

“Jennie Croft weighs about one hundred and thirty pounds, I should judge,” the trouble-maker said. “She could hardly crawl through a gas pipe. Neither do I believe she possesses the power to disappear into thin air and materialize again when she pleases. There is another exit, Billings.”

They had reached the apartment house. Trimble ordered the chauffeur to wait and ascended in the elevator with Billings.

“I shall put on some old clothing, Billings,” he said. “And you are to put on these clothes of mine, including the monocle. They might deceive any one at a distance.”

Billings got the old clothes from a closet and began making the change.

“You are to take the limousine and trail after those jewels,” Terry Trimble said. “Go to legitimate dealers first to make your inquiries. I have a good reason for suggesting that. Manage to return by six o'clock, and wait here then for further orders.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Just before that hour communicate with police headquarters and ascertain whether a letter has been received from The Fox. I'll telephone shortly after six, and you may tell me then. If The Fox sends me a letter here I'll have you read it to me. Off you go now!”

Billings hurried down to the street and sprang into the limousine, giving the chauffeur his orders as Trimble would have done. He was about Trimble's size, and, at a distance, would have been taken for the detective. That was as the trouble-maker desired; if some man of The Fox's was watching him, he would not draw too near, and he would think that Billings was Trimble. He would report the movements of Billings, and Trimble would be free to do as he desired.

When the limousine had disappeared around the nearest corner Trimble left his rooms and went to the rear of the building. He made his way down the rear stairs and emerged into the alley. Making sure that he was not observed, he hurried to the street and along it, went down an avenue, caught a surface car, and made his way slowly back to the neighborhood of the rooming house where Jennie Croft and her uncle had their suite.

He watched along the street for some time and then entered the house. The landlord did not recognize him at first.

“I want a room,” Trimble told him finally. “I want it near Peter Snard's suite.”

“If them folks ain't all right I'll send 'em away,” the landlord offered.

“My friend, you'll do nothing of the sort!” Trimble told him. “I merely want to watch some of their visitors; understand? How about that room?”

“I can give you a little room adjoining their suite.”

“Lead the way!” Trimble commanded. “Be quiet about it. And kindly remember that nobody is to know that the room is rented or that I am in it.”

“I understand, sir.”

The landlord tiptoed down the hall, Trimble after him. The door of the little room was unlocked, and Trimble entered and motioned the landlord away. He closed the door softly and turned the key. He moved silently across to the one window the room boasted.

The view there was of an alley, rubbish, and tin cans rusted by the weather. Trimble inspected the window casement carefully. The latch was covered with dust and was rusty; the window had not been opened for some time.

He crossed to the door that connected the room with the suite of Peter Snard. The keyhole was covered, but Trimble found a crack at the side through which he could peer. He heard voices as he knelt beside it, the voices of a man and a woman.

When he looked through the crack he saw Jennie Croft standing beside the little writing table in the living room of the suite. Beside her was a man, at whom Terry Trimble gazed with a great deal of interest.

He was tall and broad of shoulder, though a little stooped. He had a mass of tangled black hair that came almost to his shoulders and quite covered his forehead. He wore huge dark-blue spectacles. He was dressed in a greasy black suit that had not known a pressing iron for some time.

Trimble regarded his features particularly. The eyes were hidden by the spectacles, of course. The mouth was crooked, lifted at one corner by a tusk of a tooth that extended over the lower lip. If this were Peter Snard he was far from handsome.

The trouble-maker wondered how the man had got into the room. Billings had said nothing about Jennie Croft having a caller.

“Uncle, you must be more careful,” the girl was saying. “I wish you would drop it all.”

“Not so,” Peter Snard replied. “Is it not amusing to make fools of the police? Is it not fun to watch them running around in circles trying to find The Fox?”

“But you have had your fun, uncle, and it is growing dangerous,” Jennie Croft replied. “It would be great fun, too, to stop now and have them wondering what had become of The Fox.”

“Not just yet, my dear,” Peter Snard said. “Not yet.”

“I—I am afraid of this Terry Trimble.”

“He is no worse than the others, my dear. It amuses me to have him seeking The Fox. He is badly overrated. I sent him that letter, and how has he handled the case, eh? What has he done? This morning he prowled around the residence of Doctor Rhone, didn't he? Made a fool of himself, that's all!”

“But what is to be the outcome?” Jennie Croft asked.

“I want to make fools of the police, that is all. I am not in sympathy with them. They have bothered persons we have tried to help.”

“I know that, uncle, but”

“That's enough, my dear! Don't try to cross me now.”

“I tell you that I am afraid of Terry Trimble. I followed him last night and”

“What's this?” Snard cried out.

“I watched him—and he caught me.”

“Girl, you'll ruin everything!”

“I can't help it. I was afraid for you. I dressed in boy's clothes, as I have done sometimes, and got Jim Grat to drive me. I picked up Trimble's trail at police headquarters and began watching him. He slipped from his limousine in some way and caught me in the alley near his garage. Jim Grat helped me get away.”

“It was foolish—dangerous,” Peter Snard said. “You must leave such things to me.”

“But I was afraid for you! And he—that Terry Trimble—was here this morning.”

“Here?”

“In this room. He saw me on the street and followed me here. He tried to say that he had met me dressed in man's clothes. I told him that he was mistaken.”

“Well, what else?”

“He asked about me—and you. I told him the truth—that my uncle helped unfortunates and was eccentric. You are eccentric, aren't you? He tried to pretend that he was making sure we were not being victimized. I gave him a list of some of the folks we are helping.”

“You gave him a list?” Peter Snard was aroused.

“Of just some of the old men and women I watch over,” she said. “If he visited them he learned that they are being helped and that they are worthy.”

“And—the others?”

“I told him you had helped some former convicts, but that you attended to them and I did not know their names and addresses.”

“That was bad—bad!”

“But it is the truth, isn't it, uncle? We have been helping folks. There isn't anything wrong in that.”

“He—he may bother some of them if he learns their names. I don't want him nosing around here.”

“It is just this Fox business that is bothering you. Please drop that, uncle.”

“I'll think about it, my dear. It is after noon now; you can run away for the remainder of the day. I'm going to have a visitor.”

“Can I help?”

“No. This is a man just out of prison. I promised to get him a job.”

“I love you for helping them, uncle. But this Fox business”

“Where is the harm in that?” Peter Snard demanded. “It is just making fools of the police. They are bewildered, my dear.”

“And that affair last night”

“Don't you worry, my dear. Terry Trimble will never catch The Fox. He'll never learn who robbed Doctor Richard Rhone.”

Peter Snard chuckled and patted the girl on the shoulder.

“It is just a game,” he said. “I wait until some crime is committed, and then we write and say that The Fox did it, and ask why they do not catch The Fox. No wonder they have so many different descriptions of The Fox, eh? Half a dozen crimes committed by half a dozen different men—and The Fox gets credit for them all. No wonder they cannot catch him, what? Some of the real criminals are bothered, no doubt, to find that their crimes are blamed on The Fox.”

Terry Trimble almost gasped. So that was what this Peter Snard had been doing—waiting until other men committed crimes, and then writing a letter and claiming that The Fox had done them!

“But—last night!” Jennie Croft was protesting. “The letters were written before the crime”

“Don't worry about that, my dear. It was just an extra trick; I wanted to see this Terry Trimble make a fool of himself. I suppose you mailed that letter you wrote for me to-day?”

“Yes, uncle, as usual.”

“That's a good girl. Run along now for the remainder of the day. Just forget this place and me and our work.”

Trimble saw the girl put on her hat. and noticed that there was a troubled look in her face. Her uncle patted her on the back again and started with her to the door.

“So you gave him some names and addresses, did you?” he said. “I hope he has enjoyed himself investigating them; they are innocent enough.”

“Why shouldn't they be, uncle? It is no crime to help those who are unfortunate.”

Peter Snard suddenly grasped her by the arm.

“Those names—did you write them, or did he?”

“I wrote down half a dozen for him and”

“Fool!” he shouted. “Don't you see what you have done? He caught you last night, saw you to-day, and followed you here. Trimble knows well you are the same woman he saw in man's clothing. You gave him a list you wrote yourself”

“What of it, uncle?”

“He'll compare the handwriting with the letters The Fox wrote! Don't you see? He'll know that you wrote The Fox's letters! He will think that you—you—are The Fox!”

“Oh!” she cried. And then she smiled suddenly and shook her head. “But The Fox is a man. He has spoken to some of his victims. He has been described in a dozen different ways, but always as a man.”

“Then Trimble will think that you are connected with The Fox in some way—write letters for him. He'll be after me! He'll think your uncle is The Fox! You've wrecked everything! We'll have to move from here.”

“It was only your joke that”

“The police won't look upon it as a joke! Suppose I didn't commit those crimes; in those letters I said that I did!”

“Let me take the blame, uncle. I'll say that I did it for a joke. They'll not arrest a girl for that. I'll cry a little, and they'll warn me and let me go. They'll not dare hold me or make it public, because everybody would laugh at the police.”

Peter Snard glared at her.

“Go, girl!” he commanded. “Leave me alone; I want to think! We'll have to watch this Terry Trimble. If he comes down upon us before I can decide on a plan we'll do as you say—you can confess that you did it for a joke. And about last night—you can say that you wrote the letters, and that somebody happened to commit a crime as you said they would do, Go! I want to think!”

S Jennie Croft hurried into the hallway, Peter Snard locked the door after her and turned back into the room. Terry Trimble let the girl go. He could not shadow her and watch Peter Snard at the same time, and for the present his greatest interest was in Peter Snard.

The man in the other room paced the floor angrily for a time, now and then crashing his palms together. He sat down before the little writing table, but made no attempt to write. There was a telephone instrument on one end of the table, and Peter Snard took down the receiver and called a number, of which Trimble made a note.

“Jim Grat there?” Snard asked,

Trimble remembered that Jim Grat was the name of the chauffeur who had been with Jennie Croft the night before. There was silence for a time, and then Peter Snard spoke again.

“That you, Grat? This is Peter Snard. Anything to report?”

Again there was silence for a time.

“So?” Peter Snard said then. “Went out in his limousine and is visiting the jewelers, eh? Trying to get trace of Doctor Rhone's jewels, I suppose. He is welcome to try. You remain there and relay any report that may be telephoned to you.”

Peter Snard hung up the receiver and began rubbing his hands together in characteristic fashion. Trimble guessed the meaning of the conversation. Some man of Snard's was watching the trouble-maker supposedly and reporting to this Jim Grat, who, in turn, was reporting to Peter Snard. Billings, it was evident, was doing his allotted work well.

Trimble changed his position somewhat, for he was getting cramped, but he was careful to make no noise. He glanced at his watch; it was one o'clock in the afternoon. The trouble-maker began to think that he had a long period of inaction before him. But there was nothing to do except wait. A move made too quickly might ruin everything. Trimble gave Peter Snard credit for possessing brains and cunning. He could not be handled like an ordinary man of the underworld, a man with continual fear of apprehension in his heart, steeped in superstition and the knowledge that he played a losing game.

He continued to watch through the crack. Peter Snard appeared to have nothing to do for the present. He read a newspaper, smiled contempuously [sic] and threw it away. Trimble guessed that he was reading about The Fox and the robbery at the residence of Doctor Richard Rhone, and possibly of how Terry Trimble, the famous trouble-maker, had said that he would catch The Fox without much trouble.

Then Snard glanced at his watch, got up and paced the floor again.

“He is waiting for somebody,” Trimble decided. “He told Jennie Croft to go for the remainder of the day just to get her out of the way, I suppose, while he talked to somebody else. The conversation, if there is any, should be highly interesting.”

Trimble waited for half an hour longer, changing his position now and then to avoid becoming cramped, and watching through the crack until his eyes pained. Peter Snard seemed to be thinking. Now he paced the floor, now he sat down before the little writing table, his brow wrinkled, his hands rubbing together.

Then there came a knock at the door, and Peter Snard hurried to throw it open and admit a man.

Terry Trimble knew the type instantly—a bullet-headed creature of the underworld, with the courage of a cornered rat at times, and deep-rooted cowardice at other times. He was a criminal of the lower order, a sneak thief and spy, the sort from which stool pigeons are made.

“Well?” Peter Snard snapped at him.

“Just came to report, boss.”

“What is it, Wrade?”

“That man Trimble seems to be a fool, boss. All he has done is brag through the newspapers that he is going to catch The Fox. I've had an eye on him. He prowled around here this morning”

“I know all about that,” Snard interrupted. “Go on.”

“He had an assistant with him. They left here and went home, and afterward this Terry Trimble ordered his limousine and started driving around to the high-class pawnshops and jewelry stores.”

“He's probably looking for Doctor Rhone's valuable jewels,” said Peter Snard, chuckling. “Let him look, by all means. Anything else to report, Wrade?”

“His assistant stayed in the apartment house, I guess. He was still there when I went after Trimble.”

“Sure Trimble didn't see you?”

“I didn't get close enough, boss. But it was him, all right. I could tell by the clothes he wore and the way he walked and by that darned glass he keeps puttin' in one eye.”

Behind the door Terry Trimble did some chuckling himself.

“Billings is an excellent little impersonator,” he told himself, “I'll have to thank him for this.”

“Anything doin', boss?” Wrade was asking,

“This isn't your night, Wrade.”

“I know that, boss, but my money is gettin' pretty low.”

“Been gambling again, have you?”

“I—I suppose so.”

“Time you got some sense,” Peter Snard told him. “No man can beat a crooked game. Well, Wrade, you've been a help to me a lot of times, and I'll see what I can do for you. There is a stunt to-night, but we don't need you in it. I'll try to fix up something for you within the week. In the meantime you keep your eyes on Terry Trimble and report whenever you get a chance, but don't come here again without orders. Understand that? Use the telephone and get permission before you show up here. I'll give you some money.”

Peter Snard took a roll of bills out of his pocket, peeled off one and handed it to Wrade.

“Thanks, boss.”

“That is on account,” Snard told him. “I'll hold it out of your next percentage.”

“That's all right, boss.”

“Get out of here now. I'm expecting somebody else.”

Wrade put on his cap and hurried through the door. Snard made sure that it was closed after him, and locked, and then resumed pacing the floor.

Terry Trimble had forgotten his cramped position. There was a smile on his face that would have struck terror to the heart of any criminal who knew him, for the smile meant that things were going well for the trouble-maker—that he was hot on the trail. Jennie Croft had written the letters for The Fox. Peter Snard was The Fox. He mingled with the underworld in the guise of a philanthropist, thereby seeking to avert suspicion, and he had a gang of criminals working for him. He planned the jobs and sent his men out to do them. He had the letters written to the police and the newspapers. The officials were seeking for a super-criminal known as The Fox, whereas, in reality, The Fox himself never committed a crime with his own hands; he merely sent his men. Small wonder the police had been given a score of descriptions of The Fox. In reality, The Fox was not a single criminal, but a band.

There were certain things, however, that perplexed Trimble yet. There were angles to the case that had baffled him from the first, and he was eager to solve all the puzzles.

For half an hour longer Peter Snard paced the floor, puffing at an enormous pipe. Terry Trimble looked at his watch again and found that it was almost four o'clock. He sensed that Snard was waiting for somebody else.

Trimble was not wrong. Shortly after four o'clock there came another knock at the door. Snard shuffled over to it, unlocked it, and threw it open. Another man entered.

Peter Snard merely grunted at him and then closed and locked the door and motioned his visitor toward a chair at one end of the writing table.

The newcomer Trimble recognized at once as a professional criminal, a burglar of skill and daring. Trimble had seen his photograph in the rogues' gallery, and had read a list of his crimes and incarcerations. He had been released from prison less than three months before and was supposed to be in another section of the country. His name was George Cranton, alias “Bull.”

Cranton seemed sure of himself; he did not cringe before Peter Snard as Wrade had done, yet he seemed to treat Snard with respect.

“On time, ain't I?” Cranton asked.

“Yes, Cranton, you are,” Peter Snard said. “I wish I could depend upon everybody as I can on you.”

Cranton appreciated the flattery and showed it by his manner.

“When I work, I work,” he said. “I notice in the newspapers that The Fox pulled off a stunt last night; got some jewels from Doctor Richard Rhone.”

“I believe there is something in the papers to that effect,” said Peter Snard.

“And I understand, too, that Terry Trimble is on the job.”

“What about it?”

“Nothing, except that I don't like the idea,” Cranton said. “I talked to a man once, a man that Trimble got the goods on. Trimble is a fiend.”

Peter Snard laughed.

“Afraid of him, Cranton?” he asked in a peculiar tone.

“I ain't afraid of any man alive!” Cranton declared. “But I'm not anxious to be put in stir for a stretch of ten or fifteen years. I ain't been out long enough to get bored with freedom, or anything like that. See?”

“I see,” said Peter Snard. “I'd not worry about Trimble if I were you.”

“It's all right to talk, boss, but that Trimble man ain't human. He picks up clews where there ain't any, and nabs a man when he thinks he's safe and snug. I know a few things he's done.”

“He isn't half so clever as he's painted,” Peter Snard declared. “I am having him watched, Cranton. He's running around like a fool this afternoon, trotting around in a circle, working on that Doctor Rhone case. In fact, Cranton, that case was a plant.”

“What?”

“Just a little job to get Terry Trimble interested in the wrong quarter, so he'd not bother us.”

“Boss, you're a wonder!” Cranton exclaimed.

“Now let us get down to business,” said Peter Snard. “You are all ready for work to-night?”

“Surest thing you know. I've looked over the lay.”

“Need help?”

“Nobody except my regular assistant, boss. It won't be a heavy job. I can get into that vault as easily as I could get into this room through a window that was unlatched and raised.”

“Good! Anything I can do?”

“I guess everything is ready, boss,” Cranton said. “I'll pull off the job about midnight, or a little after. We'll fix the watchman just as soon as he rings in at his box. So we'll have an hour, but we won't need more than half of it.”

“Very well,” said Peter Snard. “Make the haul as heavy as you can. This is your first job for me, and I want it to be a good one. You found all the information I gave you correct, didn't you?”

“I sure did, boss. How you got it I don't know.”

“I happen to be in a position to get it,” Peter Snard declared. “That is what makes me valuable to you. It saves your time. It'd take you a month to get information I can get in two days, and then you'd not be sure it was right.”

“I'm not kickin', boss. I'd rather work fast and get half than work slow, run a risk, and take all.”

“Glad we understand each other,” Snard said. “You remember your instructions? You are to come here with the swag as soon as possible after you get it. I'll be waiting for you.”

“How about the girl?” Cranton asked.

“She'll not be here; I'll arrange that. Are you sure, Cranton, that you understand about my niece? She doesn't know everything, you must realize. She thinks I am helping persons in the underworld get on their feet. She writes The Fox's letters for me, but she thinks that I am merely having fun with the police. She doesn't know that her uncle is, in reality, a criminal, and the head of a band. And the man who lets her know it is going to answer to me!”

“I'm wise, boss. The little lady will never learn anything from me.”

“She knows only that you are an ex-convict, Cranton. She thinks that I am trying to help you to go straight. Whenever she happens to be around you pull a long face and talk reformation stuff.”

“I getcha, boss!”

“Go now—and be careful to-night. I don't want you to fall down on your first job for me.”

“You needn't worry any about that, boss. I won't fall down.”

“And I might mention, Cranton, that no man ever double-crossed me yet and got away with it. I shall expect you here as soon as possible with the swag—all of it.”

Cranton bent forward angrily.

“I never threw down a pal,” he said; “and I don't intend to begin now!”

“I know your reputation is good in the underworld, Cranton; see that you keep it so!” Peter Snard told him. “We can be of great help to each other if you play the game right.”

Cranton left. Peter Snard locked the door after him, then turned back into the room chuckling and rubbing his hands together as if well pleased with everything.

Terry Trimble, behind the door, was chuckling, too. He understood everything now, and he pitied Jennie Croft, who believed her uncle was an eccentric philanthropist who liked to make fools of the police.

So one of The Fox's men was going to make a haul this night, was he? And Trimble did not know where. He could not inform the police. But he did know that Cranton would return to the suite of The Fox some time after midnight with his loot. Cranton and The Fox could be taken then, could be caught with the goods. It would have to be done that way, Trimble decided. He wished that the entire band might be corralled at one time, but he did not dare delay too long. He knew three of them—Cranton, Wrade, and Jim Grat, the chauffeur. Perhaps there would be a way of ascertaining the identities of the others.

He bent to the crack again and looked into the other room. Peter Snard was making sure that all the windows were fastened. And then he went from the living room of the suite to the room adjoining, leaving the door open. The trouble-maker could see through and watch him.

Peter Snard glanced around the room and then stooped and lifted one corner of the heavy rug and rolled it back. Then he knelt on the floor, and, an instant later, had swung up a small trap-door. He let himself down, started the rug rolling back into place, and lowered the door again as he disappeared. The corner of the rug fell into its proper position.

“So!” Terry Trimble said to himself. “The highly unusual episode of Miss Jennie Croft not going out, yet returning, is now explained. But where is the exit? That is the question!”

OR fully ten minutes Trimble waited, making sure that Peter Snard did not intend an immediate return, and then he took a bunch of skeleton keys from his pocket and attacked the lock of the door between his room and the Snard suite.

The keyhole, he found, had been stuffed on the other side. It did not take Terry Trimble long to clean it out, and then, with one of the keys, he unlocked the door and opened it.

He carefully picked up the bits of cotton with which the keyhole had been crammed, and as carefully stuffed the hole again, blowing dust upon the cotton afterward, and, with more dust, obliterating all finger prints.

Then he closed the door carefully, listened for a moment, and then went into the adjoining room. It was a bedroom, he found. Trimble went to the bed and examined it, and chuckled softly. A single glance was enough to tell him that the bed was kept in the room as a blind; it was not used.

He went on into the little kitchen. Pots and pans were covered with dust.

“Miss Croft is a poor housekeeper,” Trimble said smilingly.

He opened cupboards and the refrigerator. There was neither ice nor food in the latter, and there were no supplies in the cupboard. The trouble-maker chuckled again.

“If a philanthropist can exist without proper sustenance, then I am going to be a philanthropist and dodge the high cost of living,” Trimble mused. “No food in the pantry, the bed never used, and the single cot in the little alcove not even made up. Yet Peter Snard and his niece live here, do they? A nice little blind, that is what it is, Their real residence—ah, that will be interesting, to say the least!”

Then Terry Trimble ceased talking to himself and grew busy. He returned to the bedroom, rolled back the rug, and, after some difficulty, succeeded in locating and lifting the trapdoor. It was cunningly fitted into the floor and would not have been observed quickly by a man not sure of its location.

Trimble looked down into a dark pit from whence came the odor of foul air. He took his electric torch from his pocket and flashed it, and saw a ladder below him. He made sure that it was fastened securely.

Flashing the torch before him he descended the ladder after shutting the door above his head. After going down a distance of twelve feet he came to the lower end of the ladder and found himself standing on brick. There he waited for a time, listening intently, and then, sure that there was nobody near, he flashed his torch carefully up, down, and to either side.

Terry Trimble murmured his satisfaction at what he saw. In old days, when the city was young and had not grown to its present great proportions, there had been an old brick-lined sewer there. The big new sewer, made after modern methods, did not follow the line of the old one exactly, and here and there would be a block or so of old bore that never had been disturbed. Trimble now found himself in one of these stretches of old sewer.

Years had purified the air to a great extent. The sewer contained dust and cobwebs. There did not seem to be the usual number of rats. The trouble-maker guessed that this stretch of sewer was not very long, that it was blocked at either end, and that the rats in it had been almost exterminated.

He started forward from the foot of the ladder, bending over to protect his head, flashing his torch now and then, and stopping often to listen.

The torch revealed footprints in the dust on the floor of the sewer, and Terry Trimble examined them carefully. Here and there among the heavy prints of a man's shoes were the smaller prints of a woman's. Jennie Croft's mysterious movements were explained.

“The other end of this thing is what interests me,” Trimble told himself.

Yet he went forward slowly, flashing his torch on walls and ceiling, making a careful investigation, allowing nothing to escape him. He found no break in the bore, however, no exit—and the tracks continued through the deep dust.

On he went, always alert for trouble, half fearing discovery and a consequent fight. It was not the outcome of a fight that Terry Trimble feared, but the fact that an encounter would reveal his knowledge of the sewer, which he did not care to have known for the present.

He came to a place where formerly a small branch sewer had turned off. The branch was stopped up at a distance of ten feet or so from the main bore. Trimble investigated it, for the tracks ran into it. And what he found there caused him to chuckle again.

A box did duty as a bench. Upon it was the greasy black suit Peter Snard had worn, the old shoes, the spectacles, and a huge, black, unkempt wig.

“So this is the dressing room,” Trimble mumbled to himself. “So much for that!”

He started following the main bore of the sewer again. He estimated that he had gone about two blocks, though the sewer, he knew, did not follow the streets but ran beneath buildings diagonally.

On he went, stopping now and then, flashing his torch, listening for sounds that would reveal the near presence of an enemy. And so he came finally to the end.

He flashed his torch around and located another short ladder. Up the ladder he went, and listened at the door there, a trapdoor similar to the one at the other end. He heard not the slightest sound. Cautiously he lifted the door an inch and peered out. He saw nothing except a tiny room with a winding stairway that led straight up through a sort of shaft.

Terry Trimble crept through the door and lowered it into position again. Without hesitation he went up the narrow winding stairs. He came presently to a tiny window and glanced out. Terry Trimble located himself instantly, and an inscrutable smile played about his lips.

“Once more we have guessed correctly,” he murmured, pleased.

He reached the head of the narrow stairway and came to another door. Trimble did not open it. He stooped beside it and listened. Certain sounds came to him that meant much to the trouble-maker. He had discovered enough for the present.

Silently he made his way back down the stairs through the trapdoor into the sewer and went through it rapidly. He came to the rooming house again, listened for a moment at the door there, finally raised it and let himself in.

Trimble made sure that the rug was in place, and that he did not leave quantities of dust about. He went back through Peter Snard's living room, opened the opposite door, and found himself again in the little room to which the landlord had shown him.

Once more he inspected the keyhole to make sure that it appeared natural. He closed the door and bolted it on his own side, and then he drew out his handkerchief and wiped the perspiration and dust from his face and hands, brushed his clothes and shoes, unlocked the hall door, and went quickly down the hall.

The landlord was behind his counter.

“I am going out for a short time,” Trimble told him. “I believe that I said you were not to tell anybody about my having that room?”

“Yes, sir. I understand, sir.”

“It will be well for you,” said Terry Trimble, “if you continue to understand—and to obey.”

Without further words he left the building, made his way to the next street, searched until he found a drug store that had a telephone booth, and then entered the booth.

It was not yet six o'clock, so Trimble did not call his own number to speak to Billings. He called police headquarters and was connected with the commissioner.

“This is Trimble,” he said.

“We've been wishing you'd telephone,” the commissioner said. “What are you doing, Trimble? Have you a clew yet?”

“Great Scott! I've had a clew since the first moment we went to Doctor Richard Rhone's residence,” Trimble reported. “A clew is the easiest thing about this case. What I want to know is whether you have heard from The Fox?”

“Got a letter a few minutes ago, Trimble,” the commissioner replied.

“I thought probably you had.”

“How's that?”

“I know who mailed it—but never mind. What about that letter, commissioner?”

“It was from The Fox, all right. It says that he will pull off another stunt to-night at midnight, and that it will be no piker haul like the one he got at Doctor Rhone's. He writes also that a dozen Terry Trimbles wouldn't cause him to shiver any, or something like that. He doesn't seem to think much of your abilities.”

“Possibly he may before another twelve hours have passed,” Trimble said.

“If you know anything, Trimble, if you have any hope, for heaven's sake, tell me!”

“Can't do it, commissioner; might spoil everything,” the trouble-maker replied. “But I'd like to issue a few orders.”

“Go as far as you like.”

“Know a man named Jim Grat?”

“Yes. He pretends to be a public chauffeur and owns an old taxicab. He's been under suspicion half a dozen times, but we've never landed him for anything.”

“Pick him up quietly,” Trimble ordered. “Just arrest him on suspicion and keep the arrest from becoming public. Put some other name on the blotter. Don't let anybody get to him until I see you.”

“It shall be done, Trimble.”

“Know a man named Wrade?”

“Yes: he's a sneak thief and has done time in jail a score of times, but never has been sent to the pen. Acted as a stool pigeon once or twice, but wasn't even good at that.”

“Pick him up in the same way, commissioner, as soon as you can,” Terry Trimble commanded. “Keep him away from Jim Grat, too. Don't let it get out that either has been arrested. They are connected with The Fox, and if he learns of their arrest he may change his den.”

“I understand, Trimble. Anything else?”

“I want a lot of officers at midnight—detectives and men in plain clothes. I want the block that contains Doctor Richard Rhone's residence surrounded quietly and in such a manner that, after half past twelve and until I give contrary orders, every person, man or woman, who tries to leave that block will be stopped.”

“Why that particular block, Trimble?”

“That block and the one to the south, also,” Trimble continued. “Have the men there at midnight. Let anybody enter the buildings, but do not let anybody get out after half past twelve. Understand? In those two blocks, commissioner, are some cheap stores and a number of cheap lodging houses. I am vitally interested in one of the latter. I'll tell you this—when Doctor Richard Rhone was robbed, the thief didn't have to travel far.”

“The Fox lives in one of those rooming houses; is that it?” the commissioner asked. “Got into the doctor's old-fashioned house and old-time safe easily, eh?”

“Something like that,” Trimble said.

“I'll carry out your orders, Trimble.”

“And, commissioner, be there yourself, say about half past twelve. Wait near the corner to the north, and I may pick you up there. Be careful; don't advertise your presence too much.”

“I understand, Trimble.”

“Then that is all.”

The trouble-maker rang off and glanced at his watch. It lacked a few minutes of six o'clock. He called his own suite and managed to get Billings.

“Well,” Trimble asked, “what about that jewelry? Any trace of it at all?”

“Yes, sir,” Bilings [sic] reported; and then for five minutes Terry Trimble merely listened and smiled.

“Good boy, Billings!” he said finally. “Pay attention to orders now. Get something to eat and then meet me on the corner below the rooming house. Make it within three-quarters of an hour if you can. Tell the chauffeur to have the limousine at the corner above Doctor Richard Rhone's residence at a quarter of one in the morning, and to wait there until I come. I have some hope of winding up this case about that time, and I want to hurry home afterward and get a bath and turn in.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Slip an automatic into your pocket, Billings, and one of the biggest electric torches we have.”

"Yes, sir.”

“And, by the way, did those new volumes of alleged poetry I ordered arrive this afternoon?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Excellent! I'll want to do some reading to-morrow,” Terry Trimble declared.

EAVING the telephone booth and the drug store, Terry Trimble went to an obscure hole-in-the-wall restaurant and ate a hearty meal. Then he walked the street for some minutes, smoking and getting the fresh air, feeling that he needed it after his session in the little closed room and the old sewer.

At the time appointed he met Billings on the corner, and together they approached the rooming house. He explained to Billings about the room and entered first himself. The landlord was in his usual place behind the counter.

“Seen Miss Croft or Peter Snard?” Trimble asked him.

“No, sir. I guess they are still in their suite, sir. They stay there a great deal of the time. The old man doesn't like to be bothered, sir. The people who come to see him know where to go, and never stop at the desk.”

“I'm going into the room again, and my assistant will follow me in a few minutes,” the trouble-maker said. “If things do not happen to-night as I expect I shall know that you have told somebody of my presence here, and then you'll”

“I'll do nothing to get in wrong with the police, sir. If any of my roomers are breaking the law, I want to be rid of them.”

“Well, I may rid you of one or two,” Trimble said, and went on to the room. Three minutes later Billings entered, and the door was closed and locked.

Trimble went across to the other door and looked into the living room of the Peter Snard suite. There was nobody in the room.

“Billings,” he whispered, “we'll just have to sit over here by the window and keep silent; understand? We'll probably have to do so until midnight or later. Think you can keep quiet as long as that, Billings? I was afraid to wait until later to come in here—afraid that we might miss something.”

“I guess it can be done, sir.”

“We can speak in whispers for the present, of course, but we cannot smoke, Billings. Smoke might drift into that suite, and Peter Snard, I am sure, does not use cigarettes or cigars. I saw him smoking a pipe. We do not want him to think there is somebody in here and investigate. Now I'll tell you a few things, Billings.”

Trimble spoke in whispers that did not carry half a dozen feet, stopping now and then to listen, and once in a while creeping to the door to make sure that there was nobody in the suite. Billings listened in amazement, astonishment, and delight.

“So that is the way of it, sir!” he gasped finally. “It's a mighty clever scheme.”

“Too clever, Billings, to be natural; that was the trouble with it,” the trouble-maker replied. “I imagine the commissioner will be surprised and have things to say to his chief and detectives. Not a difficult case at all; is it, Billings?”

“It doesn't seem to be, sir—now,” Billings said.

Then began the long wait in silence in the closed room with its none-too-fresh air. They talked only in whispers; they did not dare to smoke, Darkness came, and they dared not flash a light or touch match to gas jet. Side by side they sat on the floor, Trimble dozing a bit now and then while Billings remained on guard. After what seemed hours Trimble glanced at the illuminated dial of his watch and found that it was only nine-thirty.

“Well, it's worth waiting for,” he whispered to Billings.

Meanwhile the commissioner and his men had been busy. Jim Grat was picked up by a detective at a street corner.

“Police headquarters, Grat, and mighty quick!” the detective said. “I'd ought to hire a real taxicab instead of this old thing of yours, but there's none handy!”

Grat grinned as he drove through the streets. He, one of The Fox's men, engaged to drive a detective to headquarters! It was an excellent joke,

Headquarters reached, the detective got out of the cab, and Jim Grat descended and reached out his hand for the fare.

“One twenty,” he said.

“Never mind about that,” the detective told him. “I wasn't hiring you. I was just bringing you in, see? Captain wants to ask you a few questions, I think.”

He grasped Grat by the arm and piloted him inside, where the desk sergeant insisted that his name was Jim Jones, and so put it on the blotter. The protesting Grat found himself taken to a cell after being searched, and was rewarded with the intelligence that, if he was a good boy, somebody might tell him to-morrow why he had been arrested and whether it was a mistake.

Wrade also was picked up. The detective who did the job was very quiet about it.

“Come along to headquarters, Wrade,” he said.

“What's the idea? I ain't done anything,” Wrade protested. “Ain't I helped you cops now and then?”

“A dame had her purse snatched, and that used to be your line,” the detective told him. “She says she got a good look at the crook who did it. We just want her to lamp you.”

“Well, I ain't afraid of that,” Wrade said. “When was this job supposed to have been done, and where?”

“At one o'clock this afternoon in front of the National Theater.”

“I wasn't within a mile of the theater at that time and I can prove it,” Wrade declared.

“Let the old girl take a look at you, and then it'll be all right,” the detective advised.

Wrade went along without further protest. Arriving at headquarters he found that the desk sergeant, who knew him well, believed his name to be Sam Smith, and so it went down on the blotter. The protesting Wrade was put in a cell and informed that in the near future, when they got around to it, he might be told why, but that for the present he was to smoke cigarettes and be the city's guest.

Those things accomplished, the commissioner called his detectives together and gave them their orders for the night, designating the officers who were to work in plain clothes. He impressed upon them that Terry Trimble had trailed The Fox and that they were to be in at the kill. The commissioner knew those two blocks of the city well, and he assigned each man to a certain post, with instructions to be there exactly on the stroke of midnight. They were told what to do; anybody could enter the buildings who wished, but nobody could leave those two blocks after twelve-thirty.

Trimble and Billings had grown used to the monotony. Trimble had managed to sleep for some time, but at eleven o'clock he was wide awake and talking to Billings in whispers.

“If developments come as I expect them,” he said, “there will be some work for you to do. You're going to make a bluff at capturing somebody, but you are going to be just a little late. Understand? I want Peter Snard, and whoever may be with him at the time, to get into that old sewer—and I don't want them to find out that we know of the thing.”

“I understand, sir.”

“When I give the word you'll slip into the hall and pound on the door of Peter Snard's suite. You'll state loudly that you are an officer and that he is to open in the name of the law. You will pound on the door and kick it and shout threats like an amateur detective or a novice. But do not enter the room unless he opens the door. In that case ask him some fool questions.”

“Yes, sir.”

“If he does not open the door remain in the hall until I get through and open the door myself. Then you'll run to the entrance and call two detectives who will be there if the commissioner carries out my instructions. Return with them, leave them in the suite, and come with me.”

“Yes, sir.”

Trimble suddenly grasped Billings by the arm, for he had heard a step in the suite. An instant later light showed beneath the door. He crept across the room and peered through the tiny crack. Peter Snard had arrived.

Once more he was dressed in the greasy clothing and wore the big dark spectacles and the heavy wig. Trimble guessed, too, that the tusk tooth that came out over his lower lip was false. The Fox was a clever man. He disguised himself, it appeared, even for his comrades in crime.

Snard peered around the room and turned off all the lights except the one over the little writing desk and another in the opposite corner. Then he began pacing the floor, rubbing his hands together. Once he took a little book from his pocket, consulted it, and mumbled a great deal. Trimble decided to get that little book if possible.

The trouble-maker glanced at his watch again. It was a few minutes after twelve o'clock. Billings was crouching beside him now and looking through the crack. Peter Snard seemed to have nothing to do. He continued to pace the floor. Once he stopped, filled and lighted his big pipe, and puffed clouds of smoke ceilingward with evident content.

“A cool customer,” Terry Trimble thought. “But they always make mistakes.”

The minutes seemed to drag. Trimble glanced at his watch again after a time and found that the time was twelve-thirty. Almost at the same instant there came a peculiar rap on Peter Snard's hall door.

Snard put the pipe on the table, got up slowly, and then hurried across to the door and whispered. Then he turned the key and swung the door open, and Cranton hurried inside.

“All right?” Snard asked.

“Everything all right, boss,” Cranton replied. “Everything went off smoothly.”

“Tell me about it.”

“We saw the watchman ring in at twelve and then we rapped him on the head and bound and gagged him and rolled him into a closet. It didn't take me long to get into the vault and collect the swag. The get-away was clean. It wasn't even exciting, boss. I stopped at the drug store, as you told me, and telephoned police headquarters.”

“Just what did you tell them?”

“That they'd find the watchman in the closet and the door of the vault open, and that The Fox had taken a nice little nest egg from the Brix Insurance Company. You were right, boss, about those heavy collections yesterday.”

“Where's the swag?

“I only took currency, like you said,” Cranton replied. He peeled off his coat and vest, and began taking bundles of bills from the front of his shirt. “It's all there, boss, every cent of it. You can search me.”

“I guess I can trust you, Cranton. Want to divide now?”

“Yes.”

“How'll you carry the money, and what will you do with it? Suppose in the round-up they find you and you have a bunch of that money on you?”

“I'll slip it to my pal, who's waiting at the corner below. The coppers don't even know him.”

“Have it your own way,” Peter Snard said. “But if you are caught you'll forget about me.”

“Naturally,” Cranton replied. “You can trust me, boss.”

He continued to pile currency on the little table, and Peter Snard sat down and began counting it. Trimble grasped Billings by the arm and whispered in his ear.

Billings went to the door and unlocked it and let himself into the hall. He hurried to the door of Peter Snard's suite and started pounding loudly upon it.

“Open up in there!” he cried. “I know you're there—I can see the light! This is an officer! Open in the name of the law! Quick, or we'll smash in the door!”

Trimble, watching at the crack, beheld the consternation in the other room. Peter Snard snarled like a wild beast and sprang to his feet. Cranton looked like a rat caught in a trap. For an instant they faced the door and then turned to each other.

“Open up!” Billings was shouting.

Cranton drew a revolver.

“Put it up, fool!” Peter Snard commanded. “They must have followed you here. There are perhaps half a dozen of them in the hall.”

“But” Cranton started to protest.

“There's a way out! Come!”

He rushed into the other room, Cranton at his heels. Peter Snard rolled back the rug and lifted the trapdoor, and Cranton dropped through into the sewer. Trimble waited until Snard had lowered the door and the rug had rolled back into place; then he unbolted the door before him and rushed into Snard's suite.

He hurried to the hall door and unlocked it.

“Get those detectives!” he ordered.

Billings ran to the entrance, almost bowling over the excited landlord. Trimble waited, automatic and flash light held ready. Billings was back almost instantly.

“Stay in this room!” Trimble ordered the detectives. “There is a secret passage here. I want you to watch this end of it!”

He led the way into the other room, rolled back the rug and lifted the trapdoor. He flashed his torch and began descending the ladder, Billings at his heels. Along the sewer they hurried in the darkness. Ahead of them an explosion sounded, and a bullet whistled past them. They dropped to the dusty floor of the old sewer, and Terry Trimble emptied his automatic at random. He did not expect to hit anybody, and did not intend to do so.

“That will do, Billings,” he said. “We'll go back now.”

Back they hurried to the mystified detectives. The trapdoor was lowered and the rug put in place.

“If anybody comes through that door nab them!” Trimble ordered. “But be careful about shooting; we may come back that way ourselves soon.”

Then he ran through the hall and out of the building, with Billings close behind him.

OWN the street they dashed, the detectives recognizing them and allowing them to pass without hindrance. They circled around the block and so came to the corner nearest the residence of Doctor Richard Rhone, where the robbery had occurred the previous night.

Trimble's limousine was waiting on the corner as he had ordered, and the commissioner was near it in a police car. That official sprang out when he saw Trimble and Billings approach.

“Come along, commissioner, and be in at the death,” Trimble said. “Men all posted?”

“As you ordered, Trimble.”

“Call a couple of good ones as we go along. We may not need them, but it will do no harm to have them handy.”

The commissioner called to some of his men and they hurried on down the street. Trimble led the way to the entrance of the Rhone house and rang the bell.

“May have to wait a few minutes,” he said. “That will not bother us, however. I want time to get my breath, anyway.”

He rang the bell again furiously, and finally a light appeared and the old butler opened the door.

“Officers!” Trimble announced. “We want to see Doctor Rhone as soon as possible.”

The butler found himself brushed aside despite his protests. Trimble seemed to be making a great deal of noise. Soon a light appeared at the head of the stairs, and they saw Doctor Richard Rhone standing there, his mass of hair rumpled, his big eyes blazing, his laboratory apron covering his clothes.

“What, in the name of Heaven, is all this?” Doctor Rhone cried.

Trimble rushed up the stairs, and the others followed.

“The Fox has been at work in your neighborhood again,” the trouble-maker explained.

“Confound the fellow! What now?”

“Let's go into your laboratory.”

“But I have some experiments”

“We'll be careful; we won't touch anything. Quick, doctor! You want us to catch The Fox, don't you?”

“Certainly, but”

Trimble did not argue. The door of the laboratory stood open; he hurried inside. Doctor Rhone followed and so did the commissioner and Billings and the two detectives. The old butler disappeared.

“Well?” Doctor Rhone demanded.

“Remember the old sewer, doctor?”

“I know there used to be one that ran under the block.”

“You've lived in this place so long that you've grown careless. Suppose I tell you that the old sewer has an outlet beneath your house, that a winding stairs connects it with your laboratory”

“Why, bless my soul! There is a winding stairs. It has been there since the house was built. I used to use it to come from my office on the floor below to the laboratory. When I retired from practice I closed it up.”

“Well, it is being used again,” Trimble declared. “The Fox uses it. He lives in a rooming house on the other side of the block below, and he leaves his rooms there, goes through the old sewer, and comes to your house.”

“Great heavens!”

“He poses as Peter Snard, a man who helps unfortunates. He has a niece who writes his letters for him. He sneaks out through that queer back door and”

“But how does he get out after he reaches my house?” the doctor interrupted.

“He doesn't.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, Doctor Richard Rhone, that you are The Fox!”

There was silence for a moment. The commissioner and the detectives were aghast at the statement; only Billings did not show surprise. Then Doctor Richard Rhone threw back his head and laughed raucously.

“I understood that you were a detective of parts,” he said, “but you have been fooled this time, Mr. Trimble. The Fox has been too clever for you, I am afraid. So he has thrown suspicion upon me?”

“You are The Fox!” Trimble declared again.

A woman's voice answered him from the doorway.

“Wait! I can explain!”

They whirled around. Jennie Croft stood there, her hair down, a dressing gown about her. Doctor Rhone glared at her, but she gave him no attention.

“I must explain,” she told Terry Trimble. “I have been afraid of this. Keep quiet, uncle; it is best to explain and have an end to it. Mr. Trimble, my uncle is The Fox—but he is not a criminal.”

“Perhaps you'd better elucidate,” Trimble said.

“My uncle wanted to help unfortunate persons, but he did not wish everybody to know. So he rented that suite and used the old sewer. He was afraid to be seen abroad as Peter Snard, you see, for he did not want to be recognized. He called himself Peter Snard, and I called myself Jennie Croft. My real name is Amelia Rhone; I really am his niece.

“We did much good, Mr. Trimble. We have helped many unfortunates, as I can prove easily. We slipped through the old sewer, and when our work was done we came back here. So uncle kept his identity a secret. Then he grew too enthusiastic. He began to think that the police were fools. One day a crime was committed. He had me write a letter signed 'The Fox,' saying that he was responsible for it. He did that a score of times and laughed at the bewilderment of the police, who received so many different descriptions of the criminal, For the crimes were done by different persons, of course; we did not know them. It was just a—a joke.

“And then he wrote to you, Mr.Trimble, saying that he could fool you, too. I was afraid, then, and tried to get him to stop. I knew you would learn the truth. But don't you see he really has committed no crime? I know it was wrong to bother the police that way, but he has done so much good that the other”

“He wrote—or had you write—a letter before a crime really was committed, thereby showing prior knowledge,” Trimble reminded her.

“You mean the robbery here last night?” she asked. “I tried to stop him, but he wanted to fool you. It was a fake robbery, of course. There really was no crime.”

“How about the letter you mailed yesterday, saying that there would be a crime to-night? There was; a vault was robbed of a large sum.”

“Oh! Then it was just a coincidence,” she said. 'Uncle was just trying to fool the police.”

Trimble smiled down at her.

“Yes,” he said. “Early in the afternoon I heard your uncle and you agree that, if trouble came, you would say it was just a coincidence. I was in the little empty room next door to Peter Snard's suite. The truth of the matter, young lady, is that your uncle has been making a tool of you. He really is The Fox, head of a band of criminals who work for him.”

“Nonsense!” Doctor Rhone exclaimed.

“It is not nonsense!” Trimble declared, facing him. “My assistant and I watched from the little room this evening. Prior to that I had heard you talk to George Cranton about the proposed crime. A little after midnight we saw Cranton come in with his swag. We let you get into the old sewer with him. He is there now or else in this house, and so is the money he took from an insurance company's vault to-night. Jim Grat is in jail, and so is Wrade—and they have talked!”

Doctor Richard Rhone's face turned purple and he cursed.

Terry Trimble stepped forward and tore the physician's laboratory apron open. Beneath it were the clothes of Peter Snard.

“I suppose the wig and false tooth and large spectacles are in the sewer on that box,” Trimble said blandly. “We've got you, Rhone!”

“Uncle, tell me that it isn't true!” the girl cried.

But Doctor Richard Rhone merely bowed his head and started to turn away. At a nod from Trimble Billings snapped handcuffs on his wrists.

“It was a clever scheme, Rhone,” the trouble-maker said. “By your charities you were enabled to meet men of the underworld. Your crooks reported to you, and everybody thought they were men you were helping into the straight path. You even fooled your niece and got her to write The Fox's letters. Search him, Billings.”

Doctor Rhone began fighting, but they searched him. Billings handed a little memorandum book taken from the doctor's clothes to Terry Trimble. The trouble-maker glanced at it quickly.

“Very nice,” he said. “A list of the members of your band, their jobs, and their percentages of hauls. This will interest you, commisioner [sic]. Better have them rounded up before they learn of The Fox's arrest. Search the house and the sewer and get Cranton and his loot!”

Doctor Rhone's niece was looking at him in horror. The old housekeeper appeared and took her away.

“I suspected you from the first, Rhone,” Terry Trimble said. “The robbery here at your house was too perfect. You made some bad mistakes. In the first place a big crook would not have bothered with your old jewels even if he had known of them. In the second place, you are a scientist, an eccentric one, and the first thing you would think of in case of robbery would be your precious formulas. Yet you hadn't thought of them, it appeared. Remember? When I asked you you said you had not looked into the laboratory. If you had been honest, and it had been a genuine robbery, you would have rushed there the first thing!

“Again, it was peculiar that The Fox, after binding you, should unbind you after chloroforming you. That idea was ridiculous. You did not look and act like a man who had been under chloroform a short time before.

“And that cigarette! That was a fatal mistake, Doctor Rhone. I pretended to find the butt of a cigarette in the bathroom, and you at once admitted that nobody in the house used them, but that The Fox had been smoking. You explained how he smoked through a slit in his mask. Yet there was not a trace of cigarette smoke in the bathroom, as there would have been even an hour afterward. I manufactured that cigarette butt myself. I did not find one in the bathroom. You walked into my trap.

“Also my assistant discovered that you sold your jewels more than a year ago to a certain dealer, who transferred them recently to another. When he read the description he identified them instantly as the Rhone jewels. Your fake robbery was full of holes, Doctor Rhone, and was the means of causing suspicion to be directed to you. It was your big mistake.

“Your niece has said that you played at being the philanthropic Peter Snard, and your silence admits the truth of the statement. The letters you had her write prove that Peter Snard was The Fox. It remains only to show that The Fox was a criminal and head of a band of thieves instead of a practical joker.”

The answer came unexpectedly. The detectives who had gone down the winding stairs and into the sewer returned with Cranton and bundles of currency.

“So you're The Fox, are you?” Cranton sneered at Rhone. “Clever, are you? You get me nabbed when I pull my very first trick for you!”

“There is a part of the answer,” said Terry Trimble. “Commissioner, take your prisoners away. If Rhone doesn't give you a complete confession Billings and I will hand you conclusive evidence to-morrow. Come on, Billings. The limousine is at the corner. I want to hurry home and have a bath and tumble into bed. Got some poetry to read when I've slept enough. 'Night, commissioner—gentlemen!”

Terry Trimble yawned, made as if to adjust his monocle, and then remembered that he was in his working clothes, looked foolish, and went slowly down the stairs. Billings, chuckling lightly, walked beside him out of the house.