“Is that you, Mike?” asked Chick, stopping at a taxicab that was one of a row drawn up in front of a big hotel and looking in at the window. “Donovan, are you in there?” “Faith an’ Oi am,” was the good-humored response, as Mike Donovan’s face came to the window. “Howly saints! If it ain’t Chick! Phwat do yez want, me bye? Is it annythin’ Oi can be afther doin’ fer yez?” “Drive me in your cab to Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street and Third Avenue,” replied Chick. “Then I’ll tell you where to go.” “Jump in,” was Mike Donovan’s response, as he got out of the cab and showed himself a rather small, but compact, middle-aged man, with red hair and a laughing, Irish face. “Oi wuz jest takin’ a rest, so I wuz, an’ hopin’ thot Oi moight git home in the marnin’ wi’out anny more thravelin’. But it’s yese’f thot’s welcome, Chick. An’ I wish there wuz to be a foight as well as a ride in the cab for both of us.” “There may be that, Mike,” replied Chick dryly, as he took his seat inside, and Mike set the cab moving. Mike did not reply, because he was busy with his wheels and levers. But it rejoiced his heart to know that there was likely to be a spice of adventure for him. Indeed, he had surmised there would be as soon as Chick hailed him. What would he be going uptown for in a hurry at two o’clock in the morning unless there were a ruction on the horizon? His earlier trip with Nick Carter told him there was some adventure promised, but he said nothing about that. It seemed to Chick hardly any time before he was out of the taxicab, within a block of the laundry of Sun Jin, which was so enshrouded in darkness that only the gleam of a distant street arc light enabled him to make it out at all. “Stay here, Mike,” he directed, in a low tone. “When I want you, I’ll give you a signal of some kind.” “All roight, Chick! Faith, yez’ll foind me wid me cab,” returned Mike Donovan, as Chick slipped away. Chick did not answer, for, at that moment, two men came out of the laundry and hurried in the other direction, finally disappearing around a corner. “Come along, Mike! Follow those fellows. They’ve probably got a car, or something, around there,” said Chick, as he ran back and jumped into the taxi. “Don’t lose sight of that tall man, in the big slouch hat and long coat. You saw him, didn’t you?” “Oi did thot,” replied Mike, as he threw on the power. “He looked loike a praste or a preacher of some koind. He wuz a quare koind o’ mon to be comin’ out av a laundry, so he wuz.” At the corner of the street Chick saw that he had guessed aright as to there being a vehicle in waiting. A taxi was two blocks ahead, going fast. “Sure, it’s wan o’ thim nighthawks,” proclaimed Mike Donovan. “Oi know ’em whin Oi see thim. Thot cab don’t belong to no company. It’s just a private wan, d’yez moind? But av he t’inks he can git away from me--well, he’s got anither guess comin’.”