It was impossible to get any nearer without exciting suspicion. So the Bradys were compelled to wait and be satisfied with the assumption that something of importance was being discussed. They were content now to accept as a fact that their first theory was absolutely correct. The murder of Evelyn Grimm was the work of Napoleon Blood. The motive was the securing of her inheritance. The Tough Trio were his hired tools. It was a horrible thing to think of. The young girl decoyed by the note of appointment to the Fifteenth street rendezvous on that fearful stormy night in winter. The fearful murder and the burning of the tenement. The work of fiends. Such it was. But the trio were capable of even worse crimes than this. The detectives were assured of this. For over an hour the conference between Blood and the Tough Trio went on. Then they arose and left the place. It was now after dark. Blood shook hands with each and left them. The detectives caught only one sentence uttered by Blood: “They can’t beat us now.” Old King Brady’s jaws snapped. He smiled grimly. “We shall see!” he muttered. “Well,” whispered Harry, “what shall we do?” “Shadow them.” “The trio?” “Yes.” This they proceeded to do. The three villains now walked away toward the Bowery. The detectives shadowed them from one place to another until long past midnight. Then they turned into a cheap concert hall in Bleecker street, known as Dan Maguire’s. The trio seated themselves at a table and sipped their beer. Suddenly Burke arose and walked leisurely to the bar where the detectives stood, apparently engaged in drinking beer. Burke went up to them coolly and said: “How are ye, gents? Won’t ye have a drink with us?” The Bradys were never more astonished in their lives. “Eh?” exclaimed Old King Brady. “You have the advantage of us!” “Have I?” leered the villain. “Well, that’s queer, for I know you!” “You do?” “Yas!” For a moment the old detective was staggered. Harry was also dumfounded. “Come!” continued Burke. “We’d like to talk with ye. Come over an’ sit down.” “I—I can’t leave my friend, thank you,” replied Old King Brady. “It is evident you take me for somebody else.” “Who are ye?” “My name is Schmidt.” “Oh!” said Burke, significantly. “I thought it was Brady!” The Bradys were never more astonished in their lives. It was certain that their disguise had been penetrated by the keen rogues and they were known. Concealment was out of the question. Old King Brady saw that a bluff would be foolish. So he said: “All right, Burke. You’re dead onto us.” “Certainly I am!” “What are you doing in New York?” “That’s my affair. What are ye shadowing us for?” “Can’t you guess?” “I wouldn’t ask if I could!” “Well, we lay you up for the gang that burned the Fifteenth street tenement.” Burke only grinned. “That’s jest our luck,” he said. “Everybody lays things to us!” “Well, not without reason.”