It was for the purpose of pointing out the house into which the three bank-robbers had disappeared that the two boys had now sallied forth. "Positive," replied the boy, quickly. "It was down in Cherry street, just behind the Catherine Market. I never let up on 'em till I seed 'em go in." "There were three of them, you say?" "Yes--one big feller with a carpet-bag, his head all tied up in a comforter, and two others, one with a big bag over his shoulder, an' the other with nothin' at all." As Frank said nothing further, and his companion evinced an equal disinclination to talk, the boys, having now turned into Broadway, moved along in silence until they reached the newspaper offices which line the right-hand side of Park Row and Printing House Square. At each one of these they made a halt, Jerry Buck entering at the basement doors, and elbowing his way among a crowd of men and boys, emerged with an ever increasing bundle of morning papers under his arm. For Jerry was a newsboy as well as a "bat in the wall," and had his living to get on Sunday as upon the other days of the week. "Now, we won't stop no more," he said briefly, as his complement of papers was completed at last. "Let's hurry up, for as soon as it's light I've got to get to work." He turned into Frankfort street as he spoke, and leading the way past the great arches of the Brooklyn Bridge, entered Cherry street at its junction with Franklin square. Continuing along that thoroughfare, clean to the eye at least for once, the boys passed the end of the Catherine Market, and at a sign from Jerry came to a halt before a dirty brick tenement. "That's the place," he said. "I saw them all three go in that door." "You are sure?" "Certain. I can't make no mistake about it, for I used to live in that house once myself." "And I suppose they are there now, the miserable scoundrels," exclaimed Frank, looking up at the house. "Jerry, I think the best thing I can do is to go directly and inform the police." "Maybe it is. You've got education and ought to know better than I, but there's another road out of this place by way of the alley in the rear. Perhaps I'd better show you that first." He led the way around the corner into Catherine street, and paused before an old tumble-down rookery bearing the sign "The Donegal Shades, by P. Slattery," above the door. Here in the neighborhood of the busy market there were signs of abundant life. Men, women and boys were moving up and down the sidewalk, to and fro, bent on their various affairs. "That's the place," said Jerry, pointing toward an alley leading to the rear of the saloon. As Frank raised his eyes in response to the sign a man sprang toward them with a loud shout. It was the detective who had arrested him at the bank that night. By the light of a neighboring street-lamp Frank recognized him at a glance.