CHAPTER XXIII.
THE BEAST GLOATS.
"Fer Gawd's sake, let's have a light here, somebody!" panted the dishevelled policeman.

Outside, the ringing of a gong became audible.
Then came a clattering of hoofs, as the police-patrol, nicely-timed by the conspirators, and summoned by a confederate, drew up at the box on the corner.
Somebody struck another match, and a raw gas-light flared.

From the hallway, two or three others crowded into the wrecked room.

Disjointed exclamations, oaths and curses intermingled with harsh laughter.
The woman--Lillian Rafter, probably the finest actress and stool-pigeon in the whole detective world of graft and crookedness--lighted a cigarette at the gas-burner, and laughed with triumph.
"Some make-up, eh kid ?" she demanded of the taller detective, who was now nursing a bad "shiner," as a black eye is known in the under-world, and whose face was battered to a bleeding pulp.

"Believe me, as a job, this is some job! From start to finish, a pippin.