"Never mind that," returned the detective, quickly. "I have no interest in your private affairs, and you need have no fear of me. Now, tell me quick, what sort of a place is that saloon before us--the Donegal Shades? Who is this Slattery? What sort of shop does he keep?" Evidently a most law-abiding establishment, so far as all outward appearance was concerned, for the interior of the saloon, a moment ago ablaze with light behind the curtains, was now totally dark, showing no signs of life within at all. "Bad lot in there," replied the officer, briefly. "Do you know them?" "Some of them." "Anything going on outside of regular business?" "I think so, but I never could get a charge agin 'em. There's a mighty crooked lot goes in there, Mr. Hook; river thieves and confidence men, to say nothing of a whole lot of dirty loafers always hanging round inside." "Just so," answered the detective, coolly. "Now go on with your basket. Tell the captain I'll be around in a little while." He had kept his gaze fixed upon the darkened windows of the worthy Mr. Slattery's establishment during this brief conversation, and though he felt that he might be mistaken, it certainly seemed to him that he saw an eye appear at the open space at the edge of the curtain, and as suddenly disappear within. He stepped to the door and tried the knob. The door was locked, as he had supposed. He raised his fist and struck blow after blow upon it, with an evident intention of making himself heard. To attempt to conceal his identity he knew perfectly well would be a simple impossibility. He had been observed by entirely too many persons for that. Presently the door was noisily unlocked from within, and a head covered with a fiery red shock of tousled hair thrust outside. "Well, an' what d'ye want?" "To come in," replied the detective, sternly, throwing the weight of his body against the door. "I have a few questions for you, my man, and don't propose to ask them here on the street." "An' who are yez, entering the house of an honest man on the Sabbath morn? This place is closed, I'd have ye know." "Nonsense!" cried Hook, pushing his way boldly in. "I'm a detective officer, and have no time to waste in idle words. Your place was running full blast a moment ago, and but for what has just occurred would be running now. Shut that door." The man obeyed. Caleb Hook stood alone in the darkened saloon with its ruffianly-looking proprietor by his side. Few men would have cared to place themselves in such a position, but his was a nature which knew not the meaning of the word fear. Coolly striking a match upon the bar, he touched the gas burner above his head, and in the light which followed glanced around him. He stood within a low groggery of the ordinary type found in this part of the city--there was nothing singular in its appearance at all. He and the red-headed individual occupied the place alone.