us to analytical
criminology--a line of endeavor known only to five men in the world.

He maintained no offices. He wore no glittering badges: a police card,
a fire badge, and a revolver license, renewed year after year, were the
only instruments of his trade ever in evidence. Shirley took assignments
only from the heads of certain agencies, by personal arrangement as
informal as this from Captain Cronin. His real clients never knew of his
participation, and his prey never understood that he had been the real
head-hunter!

His fees--Montague Shirley, as a master craftsman deemed his artistry
worthy of the hire. His every case meant a modest fortune to the
detective agency and Shirley's bills were never rendered, but always
paid!

So, here, the hero of the gridiron and the class re-union, the gallant
of a hundred pre-matrimonial and non-maturing engagements, the veteran
of a thousand drolleries and merry jousts in clubdom--unspoiled by
birth, breeding and wealth, untrammeled by the juggernaut of pot-boiling
and the salary-grind, had drifted into the curious profession of
confidential, consulting criminal chaser.

Shirley unostentatiously signaled for an encore on the refreshments.

"You're nervous to-night, Captain. You've been doing things before you
consulted me--which is against our Rule Number One, isn't it?"

The Captain gulped down his whiskey, and rubbed his forehead.

"Couldn't help it, Monty. It got too busy for me, before I realized
anything unusual in the case. See what I got from a gangster before I
landed here."

He turned his close-cropped head, as Montague Shirley leaned forward
to observe an abrasion at the base of his skull. It was dressed with a
coating of collodion.

"Brass knuckled--I see the mark of the rings. Tried for the
pneumogastric nerves, to quiet you."

"Whatever he tried for he nearly got. Kelly's nightstick got his
pneumonia gas jet, or whatever you call it. He's still quiet, in the
station house--You know old man Van Cleft, who owns sky-scrapers
down town, don't you?--Well, he's the center of this flying wedge of
excitement. His family are fine people, I understand. His daughter was
to be married next week. Monty, that wedding'll be postponed, and old
Van Cleft won't worry over dispossess papers for his tenants for the
rest of the winter. See?"

"Killed?"

"Correct. He's done, and I had a hell of a time getting the body home,
before the coroner and the police reporters got