Mr. Rat Connors had more than a bowing acquaintance with Vicissitude, the hope-scuttling Lord of Life. Vicissitude, in its latest guise, had come wearing the mantle of Reform to the city of Mercerville, where rich treasures had heretofore awaited enterprise and where the new régime had blasted prospects. Mr. Connors wished most wishfully that the gentlemen responsible for this spoil-sport amendment of régime were, for two minutes, in his power and that he held in his right hand a serviceable fragment of lead pipe. Only last night a warning had been given him at Corkhill’s Exchange that it would be most expedient for him to leave town. Corkhill’s Exchange was, in the argot of such as Mr. Connors, “de dump w’ere de woid is passed ter cut loose or lie low.” The word just now was not merely to lie low but to fly far. “Take it from me, Rat,” the bartender had confided, “an’ _beat_ it! De new Chief ain’t goin’ ter run t’ings on de old plan. De bulls ain’t goin’ ter take de divvy an’ keep d’eir faces shut no more. McGarvey’s due ter get de ax. If you hangs round here, you’ll be ditched an’ settled an’ de key t’rowed away, see? McGarvey tipped dat off hisself, an’ it’s straight. He said de best he could do fer youse guys was ter warn youse ter make quick getaways, see?” This advice, being interpreted, meant that an end had come to the old régime under which Corkhill’s Exchange had operated as a neutral zone where police and criminals maintained an _entente cordiale_ on a monetary basis. That was the work of the Hon. Alexander Hamilton Burrow and his confréres. It was very inconvenient for Mr. Rat Connors. So Mr. Connors, being just then short of funds, had planned a double event in the way of a flight and a _coup_. There was a certain country house near Perryville where the treasure was alluring, and if Mr. Connors could reach it he thought he saw a way to mend his fortunes. It was the journey thither which “Captain” Fallow had frustrated. But to return to immediate conditions—Mr. Copewell wished to learn the time. He struck a match to consult his watch. Then he groaned again. His watch had stopped! Without knowledge of the hour he was a storm-tossed mariner deprived of a compass. In a rudimentary fashion the paralyzed brain of Mr. Copewell had begun to take up again the task of thought.