citement of tracking his man up and down Broadway, in and out of hotels, on and off street cars, through crowds and along deserted side streets, to the pawnshop where the suspect had been disposing of his loot. By the time that the valet was on his way to the police station, Barney was sound asleep in his bed at home, tucked in by his mother. And it was not till he arrived at the Babbing Bureau next morning that he remembered Harper. There was a note on his desk: “Chief will call you to his office about ten.”
He had no report to write on the valet’s case; the other operative was attending to that; and he sat down with a yesterday’s newspaper to enjoy the “comics.” On the wall behind him there was hanging a dummy revolver that a convict had carved out of wood with a jack-knife and used to “break jail.” Barney had long since exhausted his awed interest in it. There were photographs of criminals stuck up here and there—clippings from newspapers, old cartoons of Babbing, finger
