ll guarded
by the valet and elevator boys.

"What's the matter here?" demanded the captain gruffly, and looking
from Ferris to the white-faced Howard. The valet eagerly told his story:

"I came home at midnight, sir, and found my master, Mr. Robert
Underwood, lying dead in the apartment, shot through the head." Pointing
to Howard, he added: "This man was in the apartment trying to get away.
You see his hand is still covered with blood."

Captain Clinton chuckled, and expanding his mighty chest to its fullest,
licked his chops with satisfaction. This was the opportunity he had been
looking for--a sensational murder in a big apartment hotel, right in the
very heart of his precinct! Nothing could be more to his liking. It was
a rich man's murder, the best kind to attract attention to himself. The
sensational newspapers would be full of the case. They would print
columns of stuff every day, together with his portrait. That was just
the kind of publicity he needed now that he was wire-pulling for an
inspectorship. They had caught the man "with the goods"--that was very
clear. He promised himself to attend to the rest. Conviction was what he
was after. He'd see that no tricky lawyer got the best of him.
Concealing, as well as he could, his satisfaction, he drew himself up
and, with blustering show of authority, immediately took command of the
situation. Turning to a police sergeant at his side, he said:

"Maloney, this fellow may have had an accomplice. Take four officers and
watch every exit from the hotel. Arrest anybody attempting to leave the
building. Put two officers to watch the fire escapes. Send one man on
the roof. Go!"

"Yes, sir," replied the sergeant, as he turned away to execute the
orders.

Captain Clinton gave two strides forward, and catching Howard by the
collar, jerked him to his feet.

"Now, young feller, you come with me! We'll go upstairs and have a look
at the dead man."

Howard was at no time an athlete, and now, contrasted with the burly
policeman, a colossus in strength, he seemed like a puny boy. His
cringing, frightened attitude, as he looked up in the captain's bulldog
face, was pathetic. The crowd of bystanders could hardly contain their
eagerness to take in every detail of the dramatic situation. The
prisoner was sober by this time, and thoroughly alarmed.

"What do you want me for?" he cried. "I haven't done anything. The man's
dead, but I didn't kill him."

"Shut your mouth!" grow