“Go easy, Gus,” his kidnapper warned the driver. “We don’t want any argument with the traffic squad.”
They slowed at the corner, waiting for an opening in the stream of traffic that flowed north. Barney saw that traffic with large dumb eyes from which all intelligence had withdrawn, inward, to the more vivid pictures of a fancy that was fearful with delight. Some one came out from the curb, stepped on the running-board and opened the cab door.
It was Corcoran.
Another operative clambered in beside the driver.
“How do, Tip,” Corcoran greeted Barney’s captor. “They want to see you down at the office.” He squeezed into the cab and forced down one of the small folding seats for himself. The driver had jammed on the brakes. “Tip” stared at the detective. “What d’ yuh want?”
And Barney saw himself checked in the mid-flight of adventure by this premature in-
