the hallway. He flashed on
the porch light from inside and peered through the glass door. Apparently
reassured, he cracked the door slightly.

"Yes. What do you want?"

At sound of a human voice, Spike instantly felt easier. The fact that he
could converse, that he had shed his terrible loneliness, steadied him as
nothing else could have done. He was surprised at his own calmness, at
the fact that there was scarcely a quaver in the voice with which he
answered the man.

"I'm Spike Walters," he said with surprising quietness. "I'm a driver for
the Yellow and White Taxicab Company. My cab is No. 92,381. I have a man
in my cab who has been badly injured. I want to telephone to the city."

The little householder opened the door wider, and Spike entered. Cold as
the house was, from the standpoint of the man within, its hold-over
warmth was a godsend to Spike's thoroughly chilled body.

The little man designated a telephone on the wall, then started nervously
as central answered and Spike barked a single command into the
transmitter:

"Police-station, please!"

"Police?"

"Never you mind, sir," Spike told the householder. "Hello! Police!" he
called to the operator.

There was a pause, then Spike went on:

"This is Spike Walters--Yellow and White Taxi Company. I'm out at No. 981
East End Avenue. There's a dead man in my cab!"

The weary voice at the other end became suddenly alive.

"A dead man!"

"Yes."

"Who is he?"

"I don't know. That's why I called you."

"When did he die? How?"

Spike controlled himself with an effort.

"Don't you understand? He has been killed--"

"The devil you say!" replied the voice at headquarters, and the little
householder chimed in with a frightened squeak.

"Yes," repeated Spike painstakingly. "The man is dead--killed. It is very
peculiar. I can't explain over the phone. I called up to ask you what I
shall do."

"Hold connection a minute!" Spike heard a hurried whispered conversation
at the other end, then the voice barked back at him: "Stay where you
are--couple of officers coming, and coming fast!"

It was Dan O'Leary, night desk sergeant, who was on duty at headquarters
that night, and Sergeant Dan O'Leary was a good deal of an institution on
the city's force. He hopped excitedly from his desk into the office of
Eric Leverage, the chief of police.

Chief Leverage, a broad-shouldered, heavy-set, bushy-eyebrowed
individual, looked up from the chess-board, annoye