It is safe to estimate that McCord’s arrests were made purely and simply for a “shake-down”; indeed, I was told that at least ninety-nine per cent of them were. He was, let me say, an adept in discovering grafters of the Under World; in fact showed advanced qualities in this pursuit. Naturally, new crooks put in an appearance frequently, and it wasn’t long before Jack learned of it, and then it was his job to see whether or not something was doing. I have a vivid recollection of his mode of procedure, and will attempt to demonstrate it as well as I am able. His headquarters were at the Metropolitan Hotel in Broadway, just below Houston Street, near Niblo’s Garden, a theatre famous in its day. A grafter would be told he’d better call on McCord at the hotel, and then came the meeting. The grafter had to examine a business card, as a starter. “Have a card,” Jack would say; “I’m McCord, the Central Office detective.” I recall his bluff style, for it amused me. “Glad to know you,” the crook would answer, whether he was or not, and they would shake hands--just for business, you know. “And my office hours on week days are from seven P.M. to ten P.M., at this hotel. Don’t forget the address,” continued the detective. “I hope I won’t,” the crook would reply, with a smile, not lost on McCord. “Of course you won’t forget my address,” repeated Jack, “I wouldn’t, if I were you. I may be of much service, you know!” In this manner he made himself acquainted with the new grafters, and they believed in him, and many of them never regretted the understanding. If a crook failed to keep his promise, why, McCord was merciless; no less so was Captain Jourdan. Both were counted as good friends and bad enemies. In another chapter I’ve referred to these police officials in a manner to bear out what I say. To me Jim Irving was as “square” as any crooked copper could be, though I will have shown, before I complete this history, wherein he displayed a trait of which I deemed him happily lacking.