The metamorphosis in Andrew Slate was complete. With his closely trimmed
white hair, the dark growth gone from his chin, in a well-cut morning
coat and trousers, a grey tie and fashionable collar, his appearance was
entirely irreproachable. Wingate nodded his satisfaction as he approached
the table.

"Jolly well done, Andrew," he declared. "You certainly do pay for
dressing, my boy. Now drink that cocktail up and we'll talk business."

Andrew Slate's altered deportment would have delighted the author of
"Sartor Resartus." With his modish and correct clothes, his self-respect
seemed to have returned. He carried himself differently, there was a
confident ring in his tone. He studied the menu which Wingate passed him,
through a well-polished eyeglass, and one could well have believed that
he was a distinguished and frequent patron of the place.

"Well, what is it, Wingate?" he asked at last, when the business
of ordering luncheon was concluded. "I only hope it's something I
can tackle."

"You can tackle it all right," his companion assured him encouragingly.
"For a week or ten days you've nothing more to do than a little ordinary
detective business. If I decide to carry out a scheme which is forming in
my mind, it will be a more serious affair. Time enough for that, though.
I should just like to ask you this. Can you find a few bullies of the Tom
Grogan class, if necessary?"

"Half a hundred, if you want them," Slate replied confidently. "When I
first came over, Wingate, I can tell you I felt all at sea. It seemed to
me that the police had got this city in the hollow of their hands, and
that there was no chance at all for the man who couldn't rely on the law
to do him justice. I soon found out my mistake. There's nothing I could
get done in New York or Chicago which I couldn't get done here, and at a
great deal less cost and trouble. You thought I was joking when I told
you at my office that I could find you a murderer. I wasn't. I could find
you half a dozen, if necessary."

"We aren't going quite as far as that," he said. "Have you anything on at
all at the present moment?"

"Not a thing."

"I want you altogether free," Wingate went on. "I'm talking business now
because it's necessary. You're going to earn money with me, Andrew, and
incidentally you are going to help me break the man whom I think that you
hate almost as much as I do."

"You don't mean Phipps--Dreadnought Phipps?" Slate exclaimed, suddenly
layi