Just as they shoved the box into the vehicle, Old King Brady darted across the street, and tapped the tall, thin man on the arm. He gave a start, a cry of alarm, and wheeled around, glaring at the officer. "What have you got in that box?" demanded the detective, abruptly. "My dear sir, really, that is none of your business," replied the other. "You are mistaken," said Old King Brady, exhibiting his badge. "I am an officer. We heard cries of murder emanate from that building, and this is a singular hour for an undertaker to be removing a corpse." The tall, thin man nodded, and smiled blandly. Taking something from his pocket, he handed it to the officer. "My card, sir," he said, politely. "Name of Solomon Gloom. This is a case of smallpox. House has been quarantined. Here's my Health Board permit to remove the corpse. The rule is to take 'em at night." He handed over a permit, but it was too dark for Old King Brady to read it. "Well," said the officer, hesitatingly, "that part may be all right. Who is dead?" "Albert Reid, the old cotton broker, sir. Got him in a metallic casket in this box. Going to take him to the crematory at Fresh Pond." "Did he live here?" "Yes, sir. You can get the particulars inside, if you like." "How do you account for those yells for help?" "Came from old Reid's crazy son. He didn't want us to cart away the body. Had a regular fight with him to drive him away. He yelled and fought like a tiger. Really, I thought he'd arouse the whole neighborhood. Had to lock him in a closet." "Who's in the house with him?" "No one. We are coming back later, to release him." "Just wait here. I'll go in and question him." "Certainly, my dear sir, certainly. Sim, wait in the wagon for me a moment and I'll go up and show the gentleman in. But really, sir, you're running a great risk. It's a contagious disease, and----" "Oh, I'll chance it," quietly said Old King Brady, as he took a chew of tobacco, and eyed Harry, who was still lurking in the area, opposite. "As you please, sir. Come ahead," said Mr. Gloom, and as they went up the steps into the big front yard, the man called Sim swung himself up on the driver's seat, and took the whip and reins in his hands. Beside the undertaker, Old King Brady mounted the front stoop. Mr. Gloom seized the knob, pushed open the door and said, affably: "Go right in, sir. The hall is dark, but----" "Oh, I ain't afraid of that," said the old detective. "I've got matches." He stepped into the gloomy vestibule ahead of the undertaker, when Mr. Gloom suddenly struck him in the back with both hands. The old detective was knocked forward, plunged into the hall and fell upon his hands and knees. Quick as a flash the undertaker darted back, slammed the door shut, fastened it with a key already in the lock and rushed down the steps. "Go like fury!" he cried, as he sprang upon the wagon.