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Detective Sergeant Flannagan of Headquarters, Chicago, slouched in a chair in

the private office of the chief of detectives of Kansas City, Missouri. Sergeant

Flannagan was sore. He would have said as much himself. He had been sent west

to identify a suspect whom the Kansas City authorities had arrested; but had

been unable to do so, and had been preparing to return to his home city when the

brilliant aureola of an unusual piece of excellent fortune had shone upon him for

a moment, and then faded away through the grimy entrance of a basement

eating-place.

He had been walking along the street the previous evening thinking of nothing in

particular; but with eyes and ears alert as becomes a successful police officer,

when he had espied two men approaching upon the opposite sidewalk.

There was something familiar in the swing of the giant frame of one of the men.

So, true to years of training, Sergeant Flannagan melted into the shadows of a

store entrance and waited until the two should have come closer.

They were directly opposite him when the truth flashed upon him--the big fellow

was Billy Byrne, and there was a five-hundred-dollar reward out for him.

And then the two turned and disappeared down the stairway that led to the

underground restaurant. Sergeant Flannagan saw Byrne's companion turn and

look back just as Flannagan stepped from the doorway to cross the street after

them.

That was the last Sergeant Flannagan had seen either of Billy Byrne or his

companion. The trail had ceased at the open window of the washroom at the rear

of the restaurant, and search as he would be had been unable to pick it up again.

No one in Kansas City had seen two men that night answering the descriptions

Flannagan had been able to give--at least no one whom Flannagan could unearth.

Finally he had been forced to take the Kansas City chief into his confidence, and

already a dozen men were scouring such sections of Kansas City in which it

seemed most likely an escaped murderer would choose to hide.

Flannagan had been out himself for a while; but now he was in to learn what

progress, if any, had been made. He had just learned that three suspects had

been arrested and was waiting to have them paraded before him.

When the door swung in and the three were escorted into his presence Sergeant

Flannagan gave a snort of disgust, indicative probably not only of despair; but in

a manner registering his private opinion of the mental horse power and efficiency

of the Kansas City sleuths, for of the three one was a pasty-faced, chestless

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The Mucker