ut that ther
hobo, Sargint--"

"Aw! damn th' hobo!" exploded Slavin impatiently. "Here, Nick! show me
Windy's harse. Fwhat? Niver yeh mind fwhat for . . . now! Yu'll know
all 'bout that later."

His native curiosity balked, the old gossip, with a slightly injured air,
indicating a big sorrel saddle-horse standing in a stall opposite the
Police team. Slavin backed the animal out. It seemed to be lame. With
fierce eagerness they examined its "nigh-hind" leg--and found what they
sought for.

For there--where the hair joins the hoof, technically known as the
"coronet"--was a deep, jagged wound, such as is caused usually by a horse
slipping and jabbing itself with sharp-pointed shoe-calks. The hoof
itself was stained a dull red where the blood had run down. Slavin
picked up a fore-foot and exhibited to them the round-pointed, screwed-in
calks, commonly known as "neverslips." He took the measurements of the
shoe and glanced at his note-book.

Finally, with a significant gesture and amidst dead silence, he thrust
the book back in his pocket. Handing over the horse to Lee he bade him
tie it up again.

Wordlessly, the trio exchanged mystified glances. "See here; look,
Nick!" Slavin grasped the livery-man's fat shoulder and looked grimly
into the startled, rubicund face. "I'm a-goin' tu put a question tu yeh,
an' 'member now. . . . I want yeh tu think harrd! . . . Now--whin Larry
Blake came in tu saddle-up an' pull out last night was that ther sorrel
o' Windy's still in th' stable--or not?"

"Eh?" gasped Lee at last, "I dunno! Me nor Lanky wasn't around when
Larry pulled out. We was over t' th' hotel, Sarjint."

Slavin released the man's shoulder with a testy, balked gesture. "Yes!
enjoyin' th' racket an' dhrunk like th' rist, I guess! . . . 'Tis a
foine sort av town-constable yez are!"

Nick Lee maintained his air of injured innocence. "I came round here
'bout midnight, anyways!" he protested. "I always do--jes' t' see 'f
everythin's all right. That hawss was in then, I will swear--'cause I
'member his halter-shank'd come untied and I fixed it. Ev'rythin' in th'
garden was lovely 'cep' fur that 'damned hobo sneakin' round. He was
gettin' a drink at th' trough an' I chased him. But he beat it up inta
th' loft an'--I'm that scared of fire," he ended lamely, "I never lock up
fur that."

Slavin nodded wisely. "Yes! I guess he made his getaway from yu'--easy.
Mighty long toime since yuh've bin