Seating himself in the outer room he called for glass after glass of whisky until he appeared to be in the last stage of intoxication. Each time he paid the waiter from a large roll of bills. “Here’s a seat at the table if you want to play,” said a man behind the roulette wheel. “Guesh I’m too full t’ pla; guesh I’ll go to the hotel ’n go t’ bed,” said the man from Grand Rapids, Michigan. “You’ll get run in if you go out on the street now. You’d better go back there and lay down a while. Pompey!” Nick could hardly restrain a chuckle as he was led away by the obliging darky. “They don’t let any one out of here with a roll of money like that,” he thought. He was shown into a small room containing a couch, a mirror, and a small table. As the negro left the room the detective heard a key turned in the lock. Nick lost no time in making a close examination of the apartment. He had sized up the negro carefully, and in five minutes he was a pretty good counterfeit of that sable gentleman. A sound of voices now came faintly from the direction opposite from the entrance to the room he was in. It was very indistinct, however, and after a moment’s inspection of the room beyond through the keyhole, the detective applied his pick-lock, and soon found himself in a small dark room from which he could hear the voices quite distinctly. “I tell you it’s all right,” said a voice, with an oath. “Well, it’s mighty strange that bets should be picked up in two places in one day.” The voice was that of the man with whom the detective had made the bets. “You’re a suspicious chap, Brower,” said the first voice. “Ever since you made that twenty-thousand dollar daylight haul down on Wall Street you think everybody in town is after your money.” “Well, I’ll go and make the bet in the morning, then.” Nick, anxious to get a view of the man whose voice he did not recognize, stepped lightly on a table to look through the transom. The table gave way beneath his weight, and fell to the floor with a crash. In a moment the men in the room beyond were on their feet. Nick sprang to the door through which he had entered the room, closed and locked it after him, and made a dash for the outer room. At the door he was met by two employees of the place whose attention had been attracted by the noise of the fall. “What’s the matter, Pomp?” one of them asked, excitedly. “That ain’t Pomp,” shouted the other, reaching for his pistol; “that’s some spy.” Nick struck out hard and quick, and both men went down. Before the men at the table could get upon their feet, or get where they could make any effort to stop him, the detective was at the outer door confronting the negro who had admitted him. The darky sprang to the door as though to bar his exit. The next moment he felt the cold muzzle of a revolver pressed against his temple, and sank trembling to the floor. As Nick stepped out and bounded down the stairs a bullet struck the wall just above his head.