“Cut it!” said the chief tersely. “Chucking violets is a waste of time. Fallon will tell you all that is known, Nick, while you are on the road. My car and chauffeur are outside. Take it, Fallon, and let me hear from you. You have carte blanche, Nick. Dig into the matter in your own peculiar way.” “I will see what I make of it,” Nick replied, turning to accompany Fallon from the police headquarters. It then was about half past eight on the first day of November, and the famous New York detective was in Washington on other business, the nature of which will presently appear. He knew it could wait, however, and he was not averse to complying with the urgent request of the local police chief, who, in as serious a case as had been reported to him, was more than eager to secure the aid and advice of the celebrated detective. Nick took a seat with Fallon in the tonneau of the touring car, the latter having hurriedly given the chauffeur his instructions. “We can run out there in ten minutes, Nick,” he added, when the detective banged the door and sat down. “The St. Lawrence Church, eh?” queried Nick, gazing at him. “I don’t recall having seen it.” “It is a new one,” said Fallon. “It was built only a year ago. It is pretty well out and not in a wealthy and fashionable section of the city. Father Cleary is a comparatively young priest, not over forty, and is known for the good work he has done in the slums. He will be sadly missed in the low districts.” “Were you acquainted with him?” Nick inquired. “Yes, slightly.” “How long has he been in Washington?” “About three years,” said Fallon. “You were here about a month ago, by the way, on that government case against several foreign spies. I heard of it after you left. I was sorry not to have seen you.” “I was here only a couple of days with two of my assistants,” Nick replied. “We were fortunate in speedily rounding up the miscreants, barring one.” “You refer to Andy Margate, I suppose.” “Yes. The net still is spread for him, however, and the others now are doing time. Margate was not one of the spies. With the help of two local crooks, he turned a trick on the foreigners that proved to be much to my advantage.” “You refer to Larry Trent and Tom Carney?” “Yes.” “Both are bad eggs,” said Fallon. “I have known them from ’way back. Trent is the worse of the two, for he is better educated and came from decent people.” “So I have heard.” “He has a sister, Lottie Trent, who is an honest and industrious girl. She’s employed as a stenographer in an office in the war department. I knew her parents, also, who have been dead for several years. By the way, Nick, there was mighty little published about the true inwardness of that foreign-spy case. They went up without a legal fight, even.” “There was no fight coming to them,” said Nick dryly. “They had no defense. I clinched the case against them, including Captain Casper Dillon.” “But the bottom facts were nearly all suppressed.”