At the same instant the cold muzzle of a revolver came in violent contact with the Frenchman's nose.
"Diable!" swore Peret softly, and, realizing that he was at the other's mercy, elevated his hands with alacrity and, with a backward swing of his foot, kicked Bendlow on the shin.
Bendlow, however, needed no such urging. At the first spoken word, he had raised his automatic and taken deadly aim at the dark form in front of Peret. Something in the speaker's voice, however, made him hesitate to shoot.
"Climb out of there, you!" ordered the voice harshly. "No funny business if you're fond of life. C'mon out."
"Dick Cromwell!" spoke up Bendlow suddenly. "Drop your gat. It's Bendlow and Peret."
"Well, for the luva Mike!" exclaimed the central bureau detective, and lowered his revolver. Then, to someone behind him. "It's the Terrible Frog, Sarge."
With a sigh of relief that was not unlike a snort, Peret scrambled out of the basement, and, without loss of time, tersely explained the situation to the three city detectives who crowded around him and his companion. His explanation, however, did not altogether satisfy Sargeant O'Brien, who was in charge of the party. Although he and the other two detectives had been set to watch the house at the Frenchman's suggestion, he had not been informed of this and had no knowledge of Peret's connection with the cause, and further, while the two private detectives were both well and favorably known to him, he had been ordered to arrest any one who attempted to leave the house, and orders were orders.
The only thing he could do, therefore, was to hold the two men until he could telephone for instructions. Having explained this to Peret, he went to the patrol box in the next block to get in communication with headquarters, while the others retired to a safe distance from the house to await his return. When he rejoined them, a few minutes later, the two prisoners, after being subjected to much good-natured badinage, were released.
At the corner, where he found the taxi still waiting for him. Peret gave Bendlow his orders for the night, then climbed in the cab and left his lieutenant to shift for himself. His only desire now was to get home and crawl into bed. The past hour's work had disgusted and depressed him. The only thing he had accomplished had been to put Dalfonzo on his guard, and that was the last thing in the world he desired to do. Nevertheless, he felt that he had the case pretty well in hand and that within the next twenty-four hours he would be able to act decisively. And in this he found consolation.
Reaching his apartment house, he descended to the sidewalk, paid and dismissed the chauffeur without doing him bodily harm—which, considering the size of the fare, was little less than remarkable—and even wished the bandit good-night.
Peret entered the apartment house with a sprightly step. Had he been attending his own funeral he would have done no less. His vast supply of nervous energy had to have some outlet, and even in moments of depression he walked as if he had springs in his heels.
It was long after midnight, and the front hall was deserted. Rather than awaken the elevator boy, who was dozing in his cage. Peret mounted the stairs to the second floor. At the front end of the dimly-lighted hall, he came to a stop and tried the door of his sitting-room. As he expected, he found it locked.
Inserting the key in the lock, he opened the door and entered the dark room. As he replaced the key in his pocket with one hand, he pushed the door shut with the other.
