e next moment he aimed his weapon at Young King Brady and fired.

Bang!

The shot echoed loudly through the silent street.

Up went Harry's hands, and he fell prostrate, with blood streaming from
a wound on the side of his head.

The driver lashed the horse furiously.

With a snort, the galled beast sprang forward and raced madly along the
street toward Broadway, from whence a policeman was running.

"Hello!" yelled the patrolman. "Who fired that shot?"

"Man lying wounded up the street!" shouted the undertaker.

Away dashed the policeman to investigate and the wagon kept on to Sixth
avenue, swung around the corner and dashed downtown, under the elevated
road.

In the meantime, Old King Brady had risen to his feet.

Realizing that he had been victimized by Mr. Gloom, he tried to open
the door.

Finding that it resisted all his efforts, he lit a match, and going
hastily into the house, he was astonished to find it empty and
untenanted.

In the middle of the parlor floor lay a curious-looking dagger, which
looked as if it had been buried in a human body, and the bare boards
were stained with the same life fluid.

"There's been a murder committed here," flashed through the detective's
mind, as he picked up the knife and put it in his pocket, "and those
men have carried away their victim's body in that box!"

He rushed to one of the parlor windows and flung it open, just in time
to see Harry get shot. The sight made Old King Brady frantic with fury.

"They've killed the boy and escaped!" he roared.

Then he sprang out the window and landed on his feet in the yard.

It only took him a moment to reach his pupil's side, and lifting the
limp form in his arms, carried him to the sidewalk, under the
lamp-post.

Here he examined Harry's wound very carefully.

It was only scalp deep, and the rain beating down on his face revived
him.

Before the policeman reached the boy, he had regained his senses, and
found Old King Brady wiping his face and sticking court-plaster over
the cut.

Most of the neighbors had their heads out their windows to see what
caused the pistol shot, and the policeman came up panting.

"Oh!" he exclaimed, recognizing the detectives. "It's the Bradys."

"Yes. We had a fuss with the driver of an undertaker's wagon," the old
detective explained. "Harry got shot, but it's only a flesh wound."

"I see. How are you feeling now, Young King Brady?"

"A little sore, but otherwise all righ