his place against the rail. He drew on his
pipe and pretended to be stolidly interested in the sweating
stevedores, the hoist-booms and the brown coffee-bags.

A hand fell lightly on his shoulder. Haggerty had a keen eye for a
face; he saw weak spots, where a hundred other men would have seen
nothing out of the ordinary. The detective always planned his campaign
upon his interpretation of the face of the intended victim.

"Webb?"

Thomas lowered his pipe and turned. "Yes, sir."

"Where were you between 'leven an' twelve last night?"

"What is that to you, sir?" (Yeoman of the Guard style.)

"What did Jameson take away from you?"

"Who are you, and what's your business with me?" The pipe-stem
returned with a click to its ivory vise.

"My name is Haggerty, of th' New York detective force; American
Scotland Yard, 'f that'll sound better. Better tell me all about it."

"I'm a British subject, on board a British ship."

"Nothing doing in m' lord style. When y' put your foot on that pier
you become amenable t' th' laws o' th' United States, especially 'f
you've committed a crime."

"A crime?"

"Listen here. You went int' Lumpy Joe's, waited till Jameson got
drunk, an' then you rolled him."

"Rolled?"--genuinely bewildered.

"Picked his pockets, if you want it blunt. Th' question is, did he
take it from you 'r you from him? I can arrest you, Mr. Webb, British
subject 'r not. 'S up t' you t' tell me th' story. Don't be afraid of
me; I don't eat up men. All y' got t' do is t' treat me on th' level.
You won't lose anything 'f you're honest."

"Come with me, sir." (The smuggler was, in his day, a match in cunning
for any or all of His Majesty's coast-guards.)

Haggerty followed the young man down the various companionways.
Instinctively he knew what was coming, the pith of the matter if not
the details. Thomas pulled out his trunk, unlocked it, threw back the
lid, and picked up an old leather box.

"Look at this, sir. It was my mother's. And I'd be a fine chap, would
I not, to let a drunken scoundrel steal it and get away with it."

It was a Neapolitan brooch, of pink coral, surrounded by small pearls.
Haggerty balanced it on his palm and appraised it at three or found
hundred dollars. He glanced casually into the leather box. Some faded
tin-types, some letters, a very old Bible, and odds and ends of a young
man's fancy: Haggerty shrugged. It looked as if he had stumbled into a
mare's-n