kes too much
money to git it now, anyway. Goodbye, chief."

As he closed the wooden door to pay the gangsters, there was a
slight grating noise, which followed a double click. A bar of wood
automatically slid down into position behind the door, blocking a
possible opening from the front of the cellar. The lights suddenly were
darkened. The sound of shuffling feet would have indicated to a listener
that the owner of the nervous hand was retreating to the rear of the
darkened den. A noise resembling that of the turn of a rusty hinge
might have then been heard: there was a metallic clang, the rattle of a
sliding chain and the rear room was as empty as it was black!

In the front room, after payment from the red-headed ruffian, Phil, the
men clambered in single file up a wooden ladder to the street level.
A trap-door was put into place and closed. Then the men began to shoot
"craps" for a readjustment of the spoils, with the result that Red Phil,
as his henchmen called him, was the smiling possessor of most of the
money, without the erstwhile necessity of "holding out."

Then the gangsters scattered to the nearby gin-shops to while away the
time before darkness should call for their evil activities. It was a
cheerful little assortment of desperadoes, yet in appearance they
did not differ from most of the habitues of New York garages, those
cesspools of urban criminality.

From his club, Shirley telephoned Jim Merrivale in his downtown office,
purposely giving another name, as he addressed his friend--a pseudonym
upon which they had agreed during the night call. Shirley was suspicious
of all telephones, by this time, and his guarded inquiry gave no
possible clue to a wiretapping eavesdropper.

"How is the new bull-dog?" was the question, after the first guarded
greeting. "Is he still muzzled?"

"Yes, Mr. Smith," responded Merrivale, "and the meanest specimen I have
ever seen outside a Zoo! When I sent the groom out to feed him this
morning, he snarled and tried to claw him. He's on a hunger strike. I
looked up the license number on his collar but he's not registered in
this state." (This, Shirley knew, meant the automobile tag under the
machine which had been captured.)

"When are you apt to send for him--I don't think I'll keep him any
longer than I can help."

"I'll send out from the dog store, with a letter signed by me. Feed him
a little croton oil to cure his disposition. Good-bye, for now, Jim.
I'll write you