“Sampson,” he said to his city editor a few moments later, “there’s something funny about that Peters case, in spite of their holding him to answer. Haddon thinks as I do. I’m going to tackle it again.” “Tear into it, Jack,” said Sampson. “You haven’t turned much up lately, anyhow. Think you are going stale.” “We’ll see,” said Lanagan briefly. The St. Germain, in the days before the fire, had a public entrance on Stockton street and a private entrance on O’Farrell. Directly across from the private entrance was a cigar stand, and there Lanagan loitered for an hour or more. “If I’m right in this thing,” he said, “Bannerman and Fogarty will be getting together to talk over the situation. And if they do I’ll let them know pretty pronto that we suspect a nigger in the woodpile somewhere and see if I can’t start them to covering up in a fashion that I can follow.” It was about dusk when he suddenly crossed the street and went in at the private door. Fogarty had entered a few minutes before. Lanagan did not worry about Bannerman. He would take the front door, with his high silk hat and his frock coat and his exaggerated impeccability. That old French restaurant had turned up more than one good story in its day, and the upper floor steward was one of Lanagan’s numerous “leaks” in the night life district. A dollar to the steward and he had been told the number of the room where Bannerman was dining. He knocked at the door, as the waiter might, gently. It was Fogarty who half-opened it. Lanagan caught a glimpse of Bannerman, who passed the plate in the church on Sundays, with a dry Martini nicely poised at his lips. A champagne cooler stood comfortably by. Fogarty for a moment seemed about to close the door, but was quick-witted enough not to do so. “Want me, Jack?” he asked, suavely. He was of the full-fed type of saloon man, a sort of a near-broker in appearance. “Come on in and join us.” “Thanks,” said Lanagan, shortly. “Just ate. I was curious to see who Bannerman was dining with. That’s all.” The dry Martini struck the table suddenly and slopped over. “What a miserable, weak sister of a crook!” thought Lanagan. “I can admire a big crook, but this breed!” “Why, my dear Mr. Lanagan!” exclaimed Bannerman, coming forward so hastily his napkin trailed behind him from his collar, where it had been tucked. “I just met my old friend William quite accidentally. We went to school together, you know. I seldom see him nowadays.” To hear the notorious “Billy” Fogarty called William made Lanagan smile. Fogarty himself had difficulty repressing his grin. “Judge,” said Lanagan, smoothly, “you lie. Don’t try to peddle any of that stuff on me. You see him about three times a week right here in this room, and you regulate your court calendar by what he tells you. I had very particular reasons for wondering whether you were here to-night. I see you are. So-long, Billy. Enjoy that wine, Judge. But you better order another Martini.”