Mr. Burrow had not that honor. The name was not on the membership books of his clubs. “Let’s see—” he repeated carefully, “Rat Connors, Rat Connors. I don’t, at the moment, seem to place him.” “Second-story man, drum-snuffer, stone-pincher, porch-climber—general all-round expert,” illuminatingly itemized the Chief, “variously wanted for a large assortment of felonies. McGarvey ought to have ditched him.” “Ah, yes, quite so,” agreed Mr. Burrow. Mr. Copewell petulantly shifted in his chair. These matters seemed to him extremely trivial in view of his own more engrossing affairs. “This Connors party,” enlarged the Chief, halting a moment by the door and inspecting with pride the gold oak-leaves that went around his cap like a garland of greatness, “he’s a solemn little runt with one front tooth broke and one finger gone off the left hand. He’s got straight black hair and a face like a rat. He looks like a half-witted kid, but he’s there with the goods.” Mr. Burrow nodded. “Go right after him, Chief,” he authorized, “I give you _carte blanche_.” Exit the Chief, and in his wake appears at the door the accusing face of the young woman stenographer. “Alderman Grotz insists——” she began. “Impossible!” sighed Mr. Burrow dropping into an easy chair. “I’m rushed to death just now.” He gazed off across the roofs and searched his pockets for a cigarette. “Let him wait—let ’em all wait,” he murmured restfully. “That’s good politics.” Then, turning to Copewell, whose frantic pacing of the floor disturbed his composure, he demanded: “What’s your trouble?” “Trouble!” exploded the visitor. “Trouble! Why it’s plural multiplied by many, then squared and cubed and——” “Well, just for a starter, give us one or two and build up from that,” suggested Mr. Burrow placidly. “Another girl, I’ll bet.” “Another girl!” snorted Mr. Copewell. “There isn’t any other girl! All the rest are counterfeits! There never was but one girl, and I’m going to lose her!” This with deep stress of tragedy. “You must help me.” “Certainly, I’ll help you.” Mr. Burrow waved his cigarette with airy assurance. “But what’s the matter? Can’t you lose her yourself?” On the facetious and Honorable Alexander Mr. Copewell permitted the withering blight of his scorn to beat for one awful moment in silence, then he proceeded to enlighten. “I’ve got to steal this girl, or it’s all off. You’ve got to help steal her!” Mr. Burrow appeared shocked. “But my dear lad,” he demurred, “I’m supervising a police force and a city administration in the interests of Righteousness with a large R. I doubt if it would be just exactly appropriate for me to go into the girl-stealing business on the side.” “All politicians steal,” dogmatized Mr. Copewell, who had failed to be properly impressed with the piety of the new administration. “It’s time you were learning your new trade.” “If it comes to that,” explained Mr. Burrow with a smile, “I have subordinates who——”