"Let us go at once," said the detective; "drowning men, they say, catch at straws. I am determined that no possible point shall be lost and we may only be disappointed again; but let us try." "Come along, then," replied the officer; "but keep your revolver where you can find it, for you may have occasion to use it." "Where are we going?" asked Manning. "To Jerry Taylor's ranche," answered the officer, "as hard a dive as you ever saw." "Very well," said Manning, "we will go. I have no fear for myself, and perhaps this is the turning-point in our search." So saying they started off, and after half an hour's walk found themselves in the extreme northern part of the city, and in a locality which presented anything but an inviting appearance. Although but a short distance from one of the main thoroughfares, the houses were of the most wretched character, and the people who were congregated about the doorways were villainous looking men and low-browed, brazen-faced women. Lights shone from many windows, and from within came the sound of loud laughter and ribald song. They were evidently in a quarter of the city where vice reigned supreme and where poverty, crime and immorality held full sway. Passing through this neighborhood without molestation, for Manning's companion seemed to be well known and universally feared, they reached a long, rambling frame building, which was gayly painted and brightly illuminated. Men and women of all ages were entering and leaving the place, and crowds of people were gathered about the entrance. Above the noise of the clinking of glasses and the loud orders of the waiters, could be heard the sounds of music, and a general confusion of voices that bespoke a large assembly.