The card players were not the only occupants of the room. A dozen men were scattered among the small round tables, sipping their beverages or gulping them down, and paying but scant attention to the pinochle game in progress in the corner. They were, as Carroll had said, a rough-looking crowd. One had only to glance at their faces to realize that anybody who came into the place looking for trouble would not have to go out unsatisfied. Hawley, spying an unoccupied table some yards away from the group of pinochle players, made his way toward it, still keeping up the pretense of being tipsy. He seated himself so that he faced the policeman and his cronies, and, summoning a waiter, ordered something. Nobody paid much attention to him. Patrolman Horgan’s gaze happened to wander in his direction, but the glance was merely a cursory one. The policeman was too busy “melding a hundred aces” to have much interest in the harmless-looking, apparently very “tired” young man who had just come in. In another corner of the room was an automatic piano which was operated on a nickel-in-the-slot basis. Somebody dropped a coin into this machine, and it started to thrum a lively waltz strain. This music--or near music--appeared to have a peculiar effect upon the Camera Chap. Although the tune was a rousing one, it evidently served as a lullaby in his case, for his eyelids began to droop, and his head rolled from side to side in a ludicrous manner. When the waiter came with what he had ordered, he was sprawled across the table, apparently fast asleep. The waiter shook him roughly by the shoulder. “Here, young feller,” he growled, “here’s your drink. Wake up! This ain’t no lodging house. If you want to sleep, you’d better hire a room upstairs.” The Camera Chap roused himself as though by a great effort, and stared stupidly at the glass which had been set before him. As soon as the waiter had gone, he lapsed once more into slumber. “That fellow over there seems to be dead to the world,” remarked Patrolman Horgan, with a chuckle. “Must be worse than he looked when he came in. Whose deal is it now?” Needless to say, Hawley was by no means as “dead to the world” as his appearance seemed to indicate. Seldom, in fact, had his brain been more active than it was at this minute. As he sprawled across the table, with his eyes closed, and his head resting on his outstretched arms, he was summoning all his ingenuity in an effort to solve the perplexing problem which confronted him. “Everything is dead easy except the firing of the flash-light powder,” he mused. “I can get a dandy focus from here without moving an inch, and, with my camera held beneath the table, Red Horgan wouldn’t even suspect that his picture had been taken--if it weren’t for that telltale flash. That’s the great difficulty. How the deuce am I going to fire the flash and get away with it?”