precious moments slipped by before the order could be understood. And before Kestner could fling himself from the seat, the girl who had fired from the brownstone steps had slipped inside the house and the door had closed behind her.
A blue-coat who had heard the shot came on the run from the cross-street to the east. Kestner met him as he came up.
"There's a woman there in One-twenty-seven we've got to get," cried out the Secret Agent.
"Who fired that gun?" demanded the officer.
"Blow for help," was Kestner's frantic command.
"Who're you?"
"Rap for help! And get a cordon round this block. I'm a federal officer and I've got to get that woman!"
"What woman?"
The officer was already tattooing on the curb-stone with his night-stick. The bounding staff of seasoned ash filled the valley of the street with an odd ringing call that carried even better than a human voice could. Kestner remembered that it was a long time since he had heard the sound of a night-stick drumming the pavement.
"What's up?" again asked the still stooping officer, as a second blue-coated figure rounded the corner and approached them on the double quick.
"It's a counterfeiter," was Kestner's answer, as he made for the steps. "And one with the goods on!"
