We bent over.  The writing started:  “County of New York.  In the name of the People of the State of New York—­”

Kennedy did not wait for us to finish reading.  He tore the writing from the telautograph and waved it over his head.

“It is a warrant.  You are all under arrest for arson.  But you, Samuel Lazard, are also under arrest for the murder of Rebecca Wend and six other persons in fires which you have set.  You are the real firebug, the tool of Joseph Stacey, perhaps, but that will all come out in the trial.  McCormick, McCormick,” called Craig, “it’s all right.  I have the warrant.  Are the police there?”

There was no answer.

Lazard and Stacey made a sudden dash for the door, and in an instant they were in Stacey’s waiting car.  The chauffeur took off the brake and pulled the lever.  Suddenly Craig’s pistol flashed, and the chauffeur’s arms hung limp and useless on the steering-wheel.

As McCormick with the police loomed up, a moment late, out of the darkness and after a short struggle clapped the irons on Stacey and Lazard in Stacey’s own magnificently upholstered car, I remarked reproachfully to Kennedy:  “But, Craig, you have shot the innocent chauffeur.  Aren’t you going to attend to him?”

“Oh,” replied Kennedy nonchalantly, “don’t worry about that.  They were only rock-salt bullets.  They didn’t penetrate far.  They’ll sting for some time, but they’re antiseptic, and they’ll dissolve and absorb quickly.”

V

THE CONFIDENCE KING

“Shake hands with Mr. Burke of the secret service, Professor Kennedy.”

It was our old friend First Deputy O’Connor who thus in his bluff way introduced a well-groomed and prosperous-looking man whom he brought up to our apartment one evening.

The formalities were quickly over.  “Mr. Burke and I are old friends,” explained O’Connor.  “We try to work together when we can, and very often the city department can give the government service a lift, and then again it’s the other way—­as it was in the trunk-murder mystery.  Show Professor Kennedy the ‘queer,’ Tom.”

Burke drew a wallet out of his pocket, and from it slowly and deliberately selected a crisp, yellow-backed hundred-dollar bill.  He laid it flat on the table before us.  Diagonally across its face from the upper left-to the lower right-hand corner extended two parallel scorings in indelible ink.

Not being initiated into the secrets of the gentle art of “shoving the queer,” otherwise known as passing counterfeit money, I suppose my questioning look betrayed me.

“A counterfeit, Walter,” explained Kennedy.  “That’s what they do with bills when they wish to preserve them as records in the secret service and yet render them valueless.”

Without a word Burke handed Kennedy a pocket magnifying-glass, and Kennedy carefully studied the bill.  He was about to say something when Burke opened his capacious wallet again and laid down a Bank of England five-pound note which had been similarly treated.