ONE O'CLOCK Devar had the nimble wits of a fox, and the blood which raced in his veins was volatile as quicksilver.

The same glance which showed him the gray automobile stealing softly across the network of car-lines of one of the city's main thoroughfares revealed a roundsman crossing the square.
"Friend Anatole may be heeled," he said.

"Let's get help." Leaning out, he shouted to Arthur, whose other name was Brodie: "Pull in alongside the cop.

I want to speak to him." The chauffeur obeyed, and the policeman turned a questioning eye on the car, thinking some idiot meant to run him down.

Devar had the door open in a second.
"Have you heard of the murder in 27th Street, outside the Central Hotel ?" he said, almost bewildering the man by his eager directness.
"Of course I have," came the answer, quickly enough.
"Well, the car mixed up in it is right ahead.