“Captain Gothecore is in it, too; but his end is with the restaurant keeper. That check-cashing racket was a case of flam; there was a hold-out went with that play. The boy, Van Flange, was always drunk, and the best he ever got for, say a five-hundred-dollar check, was three hundred dollars. Gothecore was in on the difference. There's the lay-out. Not a pleasant outlook, certainly; and not worth attempting arrests about unless I know that the machine is at my back.” “You keep using the term 'machine,'” said I coldly. “If by that you mean Tammany Hall, I may tell you, sir, that the 'machine' has no concern in the affair. You will do your duty as you see it.” Inspector McCue sat biting his lips. After a moment, he got upon his feet to go. “I think it would have been better,” said he, “if you had met me frankly. However, I've showed you my hand; now I'll tell you what my course will be. This is Wednesday. I must, as you've said yourself, do my duty. If--mark you, I say 'If'--if I am in charge of this case on Saturday, I shall make the arrests I've indicated.” “Did you ever see such gall!” exclaimed the Chief of Police, when I recounted my conversation with Inspector McCue. Then, holding up his pudgy hands in a manner of pathetic remonstrance: “It shows what I told you long ago. One honest man will put th' whole force on th' bum!” Inspector McCue, on the day after his visit, was removed from his place, and ordered to a precinct in the drear far regions of the Bronx. The order was hardly dry on the paper when there descended upon me the Reverend Bronson, his eyes glittering with indignation, and a protest against this Siberia for Inspector McCue apparent in his face. “And this,” cried the Reverend Bronson, as he came through the door, “and this is what comes to an officer who is willing to do his duty!” “Sit down, Doctor,” said I soothingly, at the same time placing a chair; “sit down.” CHAPTER XXII--THE MAN OF THE KNIFE WHEN the first gust was over, the Reverend Bronson seemed sad rather than enraged. He reproached the machine for the failure of his effort against that gambling den. “But why do you call yourself defeated?” I asked. It was no part of my purpose to concede, even by my silence, that either I or Tammany was opposed to the Reverend Bronson. “You should put the matter to the test of a trial before you say that.” “What can I do without Inspector McCue? and he has been removed from the affair. I talked with him concerning it; he told me himself there was no hope.” “Now, what were his words?” said I, for I was willing to discover how far Inspector McCue had used my name. “Why, then,” returned the Reverend Bronson, with a faint smile at the recollection, “if I am to give you the precise words, our talk ran somewhat like this: “'Doctor, what's the use?' said Inspector McCue. 'We're up against it; we can't move a wheel.'