“Well, I don’t know,” said Patsy. “Anyhow, they’re the queerest brother and sister that I ever ran up against. Say, Chick, is it the fashion for women to box?” “I hear it is,” said Chick. “Well,” said Patsy, “that little one is no fool at the game. And she has got the pluck of a professional.” “I got the name on the plate of the house they went into. It is Rainforth.” “Then you got the house they went into?” asked Patsy. “Yes, and the number,” replied Chick. “Now we have got to find out something about the people who live in that house.” “Small chance of finding anything to-night, or rather this morning,” said Patsy. “That’s a job for to-morrow.” Patsy had hardly spoken these words when a policeman turned the corner, and, seeing the two young men there, stopped, casting suspicious glances at them. “What are you loafing there for?” he asked. Instead of replying, Chick said: “Officer, is Sixty-eighth Street your beat?” “Yes; and what of it?” “Do you know all the families that live on Sixty-eighth Street?” “Most of them.” “Do you know a family by the name of Rainforth?” “Yes; I know there is such a family there. But what is that to you?” “We are two of Nick Carter’s people,” said Chick. He made that fact plain to the officer, who quickly changed his manner, and, from being suspicious, became confidential. “Yes, I know that family Rainforth,” he said. “Rainforth is Colonel Rainforth, a rich man, living on his money. A widower, and pretty old.” “Who lives in the house with him?” “A son and a daughter.” The officer began to laugh and finally said: “They are a queer pair, that son and daughter. They travel around together late at night. I don’t know how many times I have seen them go into the house at two or three o’clock in the morning.” “Coming home from parties and receptions and balls, I presume,” said Chick. “Mebbe; but I don’t like that. It looks to me as if they had been roaming. Say, the daughter is a thoroughbred. She does almost anything a man does. She rides, and there isn’t any horse too bad for her. She rows a boat, she works in a gymnasium, and I know for sure that she’s taken boxing lessons. They say she’s awful good with her fists.” “Is she straight?” asked Chick. “Ain’t heard anybody say she wasn’t. She’s just queer; that’s all.” This was all the officer could tell them, and, after a few more words, he strolled away. The two young men stood a while longer conversing, and were themselves about to move away, when young Mr. Sanborn came tripping hurriedly along the pavement. Chick stopped him, saying: “Mr. Sanborn, will you stop a moment?” The young man stopped, and, perceiving who it was who had addressed him, called them by name and laughed: “A little too late for much conversation, isn’t it?” “Perhaps it is,” said Chick; “but we want to have a little information which we think you can give, and we don’t want to be asked why we want it.”