you have news?" asked Miss Tabor. "Any
time--I shall not sleep much, any news--good--or bad."

Feehan found the office force in the throes of getting out an edition,
and he sidled through the hurrying, jostling office force to the city
editor.

"Any news?" he asked quietly.

"Hello, Technicalities. Nothing yet. You take the case."

Feehan hurried to his desk, instructed the telephone girls to connect
all reporters working on the McCarthy case with his desk, then
extracted a mass of papers from various pockets and commenced to study
and compile his unending statistics.

The reporters engaged in the search were under instructions to report
at once any trace of the missing player and to report once an hour
their whereabouts and progress. Every five or ten minutes one
reported, and Feehan, laying aside his work, answered the call and
suggested new lines of investigations.

Two o'clock came. The office was growing quieter. Weary news
gatherers slipped into their coats and departed quietly. Copy readers
and editors completed their tasks and went away.

Three o'clock came, and Feehan was busy tabulating the statistics of
some player in a far-off league, when the telephone rang. By some
inspiration he knew a trail had been found and he reached for the
instrument with more haste than he had shown, his seventh sense
spurring him on.

"Hello! Yes--that you, Jimmy?"

"I've hit a trail."

The voice was that of little Jimmy Eames, the most tireless and
persistent member of the force of news hounds employed by the paper.

"Where?" Feehan was as calm as if only recording a fly out.

"North Ninetieth Street Police Station," said Eames rapidly. "I picked
up a clue over on the other side of the city--inside police dope. Man
taken there last night in taxi. I'm off for there."

Feehan pocketed his statistics and prepared for action. His voice had
ceased to drag. He uttered commands in sharp, quick words. Briefly he
detailed to each man as he called on the telephone the nature of
Eames's discovery. "Get to North Ninetieth Street Station."

Thirty-five minutes after Eames flashed the first word to the office,
Cramer, the star police reporter, announced over the telephone.

"McCarthy is in the black hole at North Ninetieth street. Orders from
captain. No one permitted to see him. Not booked. Sergeant in charge
don't know what he is accused of."

"Get him out. Report in ten minutes."

"Two hours and a