But Mr. Bragg did not think so. All he wanted, or had ever wanted, as he said, was an opportunity. And it now had happened, like a long-awaited dream, when the news of Jacob Moore’s murder was published that morning; and, as he left his own home and hastened across the meadows toward the immediate scene of the tragedy, his mind, stimulated by the occasion, was filled with vague visions of startling stories in the city dailies, with the name of Detective Bragg in scare-head letters and thrilling depiction of the marvelous deeds of this new Vidocq, to say nothing of renown handed down to posterity, and the probable demand for his immediate services in Pemberton Square. This was the man to whom Sheridan Keene now turned, with a glance that at once took in the constable’s chief characteristics. CHAPTER IV. DETECTIVE KEENE MAKES AN IMPRESSION. Richard Thorpe’s immediate cordiality toward Keene, when informed of his relations with the attorney, did not escape the notice of the burly constable, whose conduct presently indicated that he not only regarded Thorpe very favorably, but was also inclined to extend this sentiment even to the latter’s friends. He winked affably to Keene, as Thorpe hastened from the room, then turned to growl in the face of the innocent physician: “Send to town for a detective, eh? Carr, you infernal sawbones, don’t you think I’m equal to getting at the bottom o’ this affair?” “Why, yes, Mr. Bragg,” stammered the startled physician; “but I made the suggestion only----” “It was a cursed innuendo, no matter what ’twas made for!” protested the doughty constable. “Looking arter crime and criminals is my bread and butter, Doctor Carr, the which I’ll not let you nor any other bonesetter whip from ’tween my teeth. Now, you look arter your end o’ this case, and don’t trouble mine, or the trouble’ll not end there. Send to town for a detective! The blamed old meddler!” “Some folks don’t know a clever man when they see one,” said Keene, in tones disparaging the perturbed little physician, who had beaten a hasty retreat from the room, and from the ire of the bustling, black-bearded constable. “Too true for a joke, Mr. Keene!” cried Bragg, with an emphatic headshake. “Some men are blind, and some are jealous; but I never saw a sawbones who wa’n’t a blamed fool.” “It’s owing to their business,” assented Keene, with an object. “So ’tis, sir! For cleverness, give me a lawyer, or a detective, or a politician, or even a gospel sharp! But a sawbones----” and the disgruntled Bragg spat his disgust into the fireplace; “a sawbones ain’t nothing! Nothing at all!” “Not even worthy of contempt, eh?” smiled Keene. “You are the constable, I believe Mr. Thorpe said.” “Aye, sir, I am!” Mr. Bragg readily allowed. “Mr. Thorpe put it dead right, as he always does.” “He appears to be a nice, gentlemanly fellow,” observed Keene, in a friendly way.