"You're right, it is; run him down, an' I'm wid yez in a jiffy. Begobs! if it ain't that fly detective what shook me up on the Sunday morning poor Mrs. Marley was murdered--an' phat ails you, Mister Tisdale? Howly Mother, but you're as white as though you'd seen a ghost!" "Hold your jaw and lead the way!" muttered the burglar, fiercely. Slattery made no attempt at reply. Running down the cellar steps, he motioned to the others to follow without a word. No sooner had they entered than he closed and locked the door, and producing a match, lit a lantern which he held in his hand. "This way, gents," he said, briefly, advancing through the cellar among a heterogeneous mass of barrels and boxes and rubbish of all kinds. Dragging the body of the detective between them, the others followed. Suddenly the man Slattery paused, and stooping down, seized a great iron ring in the floor. A trap-door was lifted, disclosing a dark opening leading to unknown depths below, out of which rushed a noisome stench causing the men by its side to draw back with exclamations of disgust. "Now, then, down wid him," whispered the proprietor of the Donegal Shades. "It's as putty a grave as wan might ax for. Drop him in, byes, an' it's done nice an' handy, only there's niver a praste to shrive him--worse luck. We must bury the poor cuss widout book nor bell." Raising the inanimate form of the detective between them, Callister, Tisdale and Cutts dropped it into the darkness of the open trap, while P. Slattery, letting go the iron ring, jumped heavily upon the lid. CHAPTER XXIV. TREASURE HUNTING. "Hey, you Garibaldi!" "Ay, ay! Alla righta!" "Coast clear?" "Beta your lifa!" "Come on, then, fellers," said Barney, the bootblack. "If it's all right outside, we may just as well moosy along." And the iron door of the old tomb set in the wall on the Trinity church-yard opened and closed with a bang--three "Bats in the Wall" stood upon the street. They were our old acquaintances, Barney the bootblack and Sandy, the third being none other than Frank Mansfield himself. Instantly a fourth lad came running across New Church street and joined them. It proved to be Garibaldi, the Italian bat, who had been sent out of the wall to reconnoiter and report whether or no the coast was clear. Evidently the "Bats" are bound upon some expedition, for Barney carries a spade, to conceal the true character of which a faint attempt has been made by winding newspapers about its blade; Sandy a similar package, while Frank Mansfield has under his arm that which greatly resembles a pick ax, tied up in a similar way. To all outward appearance our hero stands upon a social level with his companions, and looks as little like Mr. Maxwell, Mr. Callister's new clerk, as that individual looks like the young man who was once assistant cashier of the Webster National Bank.