“He’s a friend of Quick’s from Philadelphia. Here’s what he laid you out with.” Andy exhibited the sand-club. Burt looked hard at the fellow. The bartender’s features were all but expressionless. “If I had got onto the fellow,” continued Andy, “you wouldn’t have a sore ‘conk’ now.” Burt smiled. “Don’t give me taffy.” “I ain’t.” “You were glad to see me laid out.” Andy looked aggrieved. “If that was the case,” he said, “I should not have helped to bring you around.” “Where did Quick skip to?” “I’ll never tell you.” “I didn’t suppose you would.” “I mean I don’t know where he has skipped to.” “How long have you been with him?” asked Burt. “A couple of months; but I’m going to leave, old man.” “Why?” “This place is too hot for my blood, that’s all. If I stay here, first thing I know I’ll find myself wearing stripes.” “What have you been doing?” “Nothing. But if you have this crib pulled at any time, I’m likely to be scooped in with the rest,” remarked innocent Andy. “You know me?” “I know you are a detective.” “Do you know Enoch Cook?” “Yes; he is quite chummy with the boss,” replied Andy. “Then you must also know Dick Kidd?” “I’ve heard the name.” “But you don’t know him, eh?” “No.” “When did you see Cook last?” “Night before last.” “Who was Quick fighting with?” “No one, that I know of.” “How did he get his shirt spotted with blood?” “I didn’t know there was any blood on his shirt,” remarked Andy. At this juncture a third party appeared upon the scene. It was Enoch Cook. He turned to flee. Burt was too quick for him. Covering Enoch with a revolver, he ordered him to be seated. Then Burt requested the bartender to leave the room. Cook had not seen Quick since the latter’s visit to Monte Murphy. After his crime in Elizabeth Street Mike did not return to his saloon until the next day. Consequently Enoch knew nothing about the tragedy. “Now, my fellow,” said the detective, “you won’t slip through my fingers so easily this time as you did before. Perhaps it will interest you to know that Pierre Jacquet is dying.” Cook became deathly pale, and he felt his spine grow weak. The Frenchman’s death would make him a murderer. It was hard enough to be compelled to serve a long term in prison, but the gallows---- The thought of that grim instrument of death almost froze the blood in his veins. “Who is Pierre Jacquet?” Cook’s voice was hoarse, and it hardly rose above a whisper. “You know who I mean.” “I don’t.” “Why will you be so silly? I mean the man you stabbed in Frankfort Street--the man whose wife your friend Kidd ran off with.” “There must be a mistake. I never stabbed any one.” “You never stopped at a cabaret in Paris, kept by one Pierre Jacquet?” Cook hesitated. “Yes,” he said finally, “but I know nothing of Kidd running off with the fellow’s wife.” “Nor you didn’t stab him?” “No; I did not even know the fellow was in this country.” “Enoch, you know very well you can’t throw dust in my eyes.”