days ago."

"You stringin' me?" asked Billy, a vicious glint in his eyes.

"On the level," Flannagan assured him. "Wait, I gotta

clippin' from the Trib in my clothes somewheres that gives all

the dope."

He drew some papers from his coat pocket and handed one

to Billy.

"Turn your back and hold up your hands while I read,"

said Byrne, and as Flannagan did as he was bid Billy unfolded

the soiled bit of newspaper and read that which set him

a-trembling with nervous excitement.

A moment later Detective Sergeant Flannagan ventured a

rearward glance to note how Byrne was receiving the joyful

tidings which the newspaper article contained.

"Well, I'll be!" ejaculated the sleuth, for Billy Byrne was

already a hundred yards away and breaking all records in his

dash for the sitting-room he had quitted but a few minutes

before.

It was a happy and contented trio who took the train the

following day on their way back to New York City after

bidding Bridge good-bye in the improvised hospital and exacting

his promise that he would visit them in New York in the

near future.

It was a month later; spring was filling the southland with

new, sweet life. The joy of living was reflected in the song of

birds and the opening of buds. Beside a slow-moving stream a

man squatted before a tiny fire. A battered tin can, half filled

with water stood close to the burning embers. Upon a sharpened

stick the man roasted a bit of meat, and as he watched it

curling at the edges as the flame licked it he spoke aloud

though there was none to hear:

Just for a con I'd like to know (yes, he crossed over long ago;

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