"By George, you've got a big head!" remarked the measurer. "Prominent, Roman nose. No. 4 eyes. Thank you. Just step into the next room, will you, and be mugged?" McAllister drew on his shoe and followed Tom into the adjoining chamber of horrors. "No tricks, now!" commented the officer in charge of the instrument. Snap! went the camera. "Turn sideways." Snap! "That's all." The clubman staggered to his feet. He entirely failed to appreciate the extent of the indignity which had been practised upon him. It was hours before he realized that he had actually been measured and photographed as a criminal, and that, to his dying hour and beyond, these insignia of his shame would remain locked in the custody of the police. "Where now?" he asked. "Time to go over to court," answered Tom. "The wagon'll be waitin' for us. But first we'll drop in on Sheridan--record-room man, you know." "Isn't there some way I can see the Commissioner?" inquired McAllister. Tom burst into a roar of laughter. "You _have_ got a gall!" he commented, thumping his prisoner good-naturedly in the middle of the back. "The Commissioner! Ho-ho! That's a good one! I guess we'll have to make it the Warden. Come on, now, and quit yer joshin'." Once more they entered the main room, where the detectives were congregated. The Inspector was still at it. There had been a big haul the night before. He intended running all the crooks out of town by New Year's Day. Tom shoved McAllister through the crush, across an adjoining room and finally into a tiny office. A young man with a genial countenance was sitting at a desk by the single window. He looked up as they crossed the threshold. "Hello, Welch! How goes it? Let's see, how long is it since you were here?" Somehow this quiet, gentlemanly fellow with his confident method of address, telling you just who you were, irritated McAllister to the explosive point. "I'm not Welch!" he cried indignantly. "Ha-ha!" laughed Mr. Sheridan. "Pray who are you?" "You'll find out soon enough!" answered McAllister sullenly. "Look here," remarked the other, "don't imagine you can bluff us. If you think you are not Welch, perhaps I can persuade you to change your mind." He turned to an officer who stood in the doorway of a large vault. "Bring 2,208, if you please." The officer pulled out a drawer, removed a long linen envelope, and spread out its contents upon the desk. These were fifteen or twenty newspaper clippings, at least one of which was embellished with an evil-looking wood-cut. "Let's see," continued Mr. Sheridan. "You began with a year up the river. Took a pearl pin from a man named McAllister. Then you turned several tricks in Chicago, St. Louis, Buffalo and Philadelphia, and got away with it every time. Have we got you right?" McAllister ground his teeth. "You have not!" said he.