y it was heat that did it. A
match touched to the base here would fire the cap, which would, in
turn, set off the powder. There's a different color to the brass at the
cap end. It looks to me like a shell which has been clamped down by
three--no, four screws. There's marks on the rim. See them, Loris--Miss
Stockbridge? Right there. Right at my nail."

"That's about right, Harry!" declared Drew, reaching for the cartridge.
"It was clamped down with small screws. It was ignited or set off by
heat. It forms part of a home-made pistol which conforms, to a hair,
with Fosdick's statement that the bullet never went through a barrel
that was rifled."

"That's your own statement!" blurted Delaney. "Fosdick never had brains
enough to figure a thing out like that. All he knows is pinch everybody
two or three times. I've seen him do it."

Drew eyed the prisoner. "So you see," he said softly, cuttingly, "crime
does not pay. The net has closed over your head. You erred a score of
times. You couldn't afford to make one little mistake. I could--I did!
I've made a hundred in this case already! It's the hound and the hare.
The hound loses the scent and brays on blunderingly till he picks it up
again. You lost me time and again. You fooled me in that lineman's
guise when you came into the library. Your make-up was perfect. You
said just the right things."

The prisoner's lips curled in a thin cruel line. He rattled the cuffs
defiantly. His shoulders lifted then fell back upon the rug.

"Bert!" snapped Drew. "Bert!" he repeated with awakening thought.
"Delaney," he said, turning and glancing up at the operative's broad,
flushed face. "I got this fellow located. What was the name of the man
we tried to find in the Morphy failure? The one we had a bench-warrant
for? He was indicted. The indictment was sealed. You know! It's a name
you didn't like. The fellow who escaped to Rio or South America? Who
afterwards went to Antofagasta. Ah, Cuthbert!"

"That's it, Chief! Cutbert! Cutbert Morphy--the old devil's brother.
This is him!"

Drew rubbed his hands vigorously. "It is!" he exclaimed, with his eyes
swinging over the prisoner's drawn features. "Cuthbert Morphy--a
brother's tool and confederate. We're getting on!"

The detective rose and faced Loris and Nichols. "Captain," he said, "a
firing squad at sunrise would be the Army's answer to this man's
deviltry. Consider what he has done. He's worked back to New York after
a year as a fug