But, feeble as was their light, Detective Hook recognized in that care-worn face, at a glance, the features of the strange woman whom he had tracked through the streets on the previous night, and who, to his positive knowledge now lay dead in the city morgue! CHAPTER XIII. IN CAGNEY'S SANCTUM. We never heard it claimed that Oliver street was fashionable. If such a claim was made, many who know that narrow lane, extending from Chatham square down to the East River front, would be inclined to dispute its truth. Crossing Cherry street, Water and Front, passing directly through the heart of the densely populated Fourth Ward, long known as the home of the toughest of the "toughs" who infest the City of New York, it would be useless for us to pretend that Oliver street was anything else than just what it is--as bad as bad can be. Not that many excellent people cannot be found within its limits. That is true of every city street, no matter how poor its seeming; but Michael J. Cagney was certainly not one of these, nor was his saloon--"The Fourth Ward Shades"--any better than it ought to be, if common rumor was to be believed. And yet Cagney did a flourishing business--there could be no doubt as to that. It was open all day, it could be entered at night, nor upon the Sabbath were the thirsty turned away. How Mr. Michael J. Cagney managed to arrange matters with the excise commissioners is no concern of ours. In the present stage of the events of this narrative we are concerned only with two individuals, who, at the hour of daybreak on the particular Sunday morning of the visit of Frank Mansfield and Jerry Buck to the Catherine Market, entered quietly at Cagney's little side door. They were none other than the two men who had emerged from the alley at the side of the Donegal Shades, one of whom it will be recollected, Frank recognized as that most reputable member of society, Mr. Elijah Callister, the well-known operator on the stock exchange, and the other the man pointed out by Jerry Buck as one of the burglars of the Webster Bank. Pushing against the door, to all appearance tightly fastened, but which instantly yielded to their touch, the two men found themselves within a dirty bar-room. Bottles and demijohns lined the grimy shelves, great casks and barrels were piled from the level of the sawdust-covered floor in double tiers around two sides of the room. Upon the top of these barrels lay four or five ragged men, some young, some old, all sprawled out without reference to the gracefulness of the position shown and all sound asleep. These were the drunkards of the Saturday night previous, taken from the floor, to which they had fallen under the influence of the vile poison imbibed at this and other bars, and thrown upon the top of these barrels to sleep off the effects of their debauch.