As you go about accumulating knowledge, you should fix your eye upon one or two great truths. You must never forget that when you are close enough to see a man you are close enough to be seen. It is likewise foolish, weakly foolish, to assume that you are the only gas jet in the chandelier, the only pebble on the beach, or possess the only kodak throughout the entire length of the boardwalk. Bear ever in mind that while you are getting the picture of some other fellow, he in all human chance is snapping yours. This last is not so much by virtue of any law of Gangland as by a law of nature. Its purpose is to preserve that equilibrium, wanting which, the universe itself would slip into chaos and the music of the spheres become but the rawest tuning of the elemental instruments. The stars would no longer sing together, but shriek together, and space itself would be driven to stop its ears. Folk who fail to carry these grave matters upon the constant shoulder of their regard, get into trouble. At Gouverneur hospital, where he died, the register gave his name as “Samuel Wendell,” and let it go at that. The Central Office, which finds its profit in amplification, said, “Samuel Wendell, _alias_ Kid Unger, _alias_ the Ghost,” and further identified him as “brother to Johnny the Mock.” Samuel Wendell, _alias_ Kid Unger, _alias_ the Ghost, brother to Johnny the Mock, was not the original Ghost. Until less than two years ago the title was honorably worn by Mashier, who got twenty spaces for a night trick he turned in Brooklyn. Since Mashier could not use the name in Sing Sing, Wendell, _alias_ Kid Unger, brother to Johnny the Mock, adopted it for his own. It fitted well with his midnight methods and noiseless, gliding, skulking ways. Moreover, since it was upon his own sly rap to the bulls, who made the collar, that Mashier got pinched, he may have felt himself entitled to the name as part of his reward. The Indian scalps his victim, and upon a similar principle Wendell, _alias_ Unger, brother to Johnny the Mock, when Mashier was handed that breath-taking twenty years, may have decided to call himself the Ghost. It will never be precisely known how and why and by whose hand the Ghost was killed, although it is common opinion that Pretty Agnes had much to do with it. Also, common opinion is more often right than many might believe. In view of that possible connection with the bumping off of the Ghost, Pretty Agnes is worth a word. She could not have been called old. When upon a certain Saturday evening, not remote, she stepped into Jack Sirocco's in Chatham Square, her years counted fewer than nineteen. Still, she had seen a good deal--or a bad deal--whichever you prefer.