There is little enough romance attached to crime.

In the Night Court, where vice is on continuous parade and crime only an occasional visitor, the spectacle one beholds is repulsive to the last degree.
Passing down the long aisle between the spectators' seats, Britz entered the railed enclosure reserved for those having business with the court.
He held a long whispered consultation with the Magistrate, and when he left he was in possession of a search warrant, duly signed and sealed.
With the document securely hidden in his pocket, he proceeded uptown again, eventually pausing before a three-story, brown-stone house, two blocks from the Whitmore Iron Works.
An automobile was waiting at the curb.

Britz made mental note of the number of the machine, and, in the vestibule of the house transferred the number to the back of an envelope.
It was past midnight, yet the drawing-room was aglow with light.

Britz rang the bell, and after a short wait, the door was slowly opened by a servant.
"This is Mr.Beard's home, I believe ?" the detective inquired.
"Yes, but Mr.Beard is not at home," answered the servant.
"I shall wait for him," decided Britz, thrusting a broad toe into the narrow crack through which the servant was surveying him.
"It is rather late to call," protested the servant.

"Besides, I don't know you." "I am an officer of the law," announced Britz.