Thus they got a line upon the case and were able to form their conclusions. “I can see only one party at the bottom of it all,” said Harry, “and that is Napoleon Blood.” “Precisely!” agreed Old King Brady. “He is our man!” “It is a gigantic black conspiracy.” “Yes.” “But Blood had accomplices.” “Oh, yes. The crime that evening on Fifteenth street could not have been committed by him alone.” So the detectives made their diagnosis. It was in order now to place Blood under close surveillance. The detectives shadowed him persistently. Wherever he went they dogged him and this resulted in bearing fruit. One day Blood left his office in Wall street and made his way to Chatham Square. Here there was a small bar-room known as the “Travelers’ Rest,” and kept by a notorious fence called Sly Jimmie Callahan. That the eminently respectable Mr. Blood should visit such a place as Sly Jimmie’s, was odd, to say the least. The detectives felt sure that at last they had a clew. So they kept close behind the notary and followed him into Sly Jimmie’s place. Blood kept his collar turned up and his hat pulled over his eyes as if to escape recognition. He had hardly entered the place, however, when three men stepped up to him. They were a trio of as odd-looking crooks as ever saw the light of day. The detectives knew them in an instant. “By Jupiter! The Tough Trio!” exclaimed Harry. “Whew!” whispered Old King Brady. “When did they return? They have not been seen around New York for five years.” This was true. The three men were a trio of the most dreaded crooks Gotham had ever known. But they had been absent from New York for years. The tall, lantern-jawed fellow with the patch over his eye was Dick Burke. He was a cool, shrewd villain, and the brains of the trio. The hump-backed, heavy-jowled fellow with the scar on his cheek was Dan Collins. He was a cunning sneak thief. The short, pudgy rascal with the leer and St. Vitus dance was Martin Van, as atrocious a monster as ever saw the light of day—a veritable Caliban. It was not easy for this trio to disguise themselves. They couldn’t conceal their identity anywhere, yet they were mysteriously elusive and always fooled the detectives. They managed to perpetrate the blackest of crimes and yet cover their tracks so well that they could not be cornered. The Tough Trio was an appropriate name for them. What could the eminently respectable Mr. Blood be doing in such company? What business could he possibly have with them? This was the question. The detectives, it is hardly necessary to say, were interested. Yet Mr. Blood met the trio familiarly and as if they were old friends. All drank at the bar and then withdrew to a table nearby. The detectives in their clever disguise were not recognized. They also sat at a table and pretended to sip the vile beer which the place afforded. They regretted that not a word of the conversation reached them.