“He went home. He lives in a boarding house----” “We must have him! Come on!” They left the hotel together hurriedly. * * * * * In a corner of Daddy Drew’s dive--the worst place in Denver--sat the two men who had escaped from Nick Carter in Helena, when he was on another case. They had liquor in front of them, but they drank little. Every time the door opened to admit a newcomer, they looked that way eagerly. The place was pretty well filled, and all the scum of the city seemed to drift in there, for it was known that once inside the doors a man need not leave until morning. Daddy let his customers sleep on the floor, if they had nowhere else to go. At last, closing hour came, and all the doors were locked, and the curtains pulled tightly across the windows. Jack Thompson muttered an oath. “He’s going to bilk us,” he muttered. “Not him,” responded Hamilton. “Wait, I tell you. The night’s young yet. He can’t afford to bilk us, don’t you see?” “No, I don’t. He might skip----” “But he’s not suspected! He’s got every reason to stay, for here is where the money is. He’ll get around before the night is over.” “I hope he brings his wad with him.” “He will.” They were silent for a moment, and then Jack muttered: “I’d have liked it better if he’d paid us for the other job and not asked us to tackle the detective.” “Pooh! what scares you so?” “Nick Carter. Ain’t that enough?” “Nick Carter’s dead.” “Do you believe it, Nat?” “I’m going to tell Claymore so.” Jack shuddered. “I see you don’t believe it,” he said; “but I hope Claymore comes along and believes it. Then he’ll pay us, and we can skip before the cuss comes to life.” Nat Hamilton smiled. “He won’t come to life if he’s dead,” he remarked coolly, “any more than the preacher chap will.” “Ugh!” grunted Jack, and they were silent again. Not less than thirty men were in the place. They were fairly quiet, for they knew that loud noise might bring the police down on the dive, and then their night’s shelter would be closed up. But they were a tough lot, and every man of them would have joined in to help anybody there if a policeman, or a dozen of them, had come in to make an arrest. This was so well known that the police usually waited for their men to come out before trying to arrest them. There hadn’t been a murder in Daddy Drew’s for a long time, and a tough present on this night remarked to another that one was about due. A few minutes after twelve, there was a light knock at the door. The bartender who went to it and looked through a slide, came back to Nat. “Feller out there askin’ for youse,” he said. Both men got up, but Nat pushed Jack back into his chair. “I’ll see who ’tis,” he said. He went to the door and looked through the slide. Claymore’s face appeared there as if it were a picture in a frame. “He’s all right,” said Nat to the bartender; “friend o’ mine. Let him in.” The door was opened, and Nat’s friend came in.