Before everything else, however, it was necessary to make sure that the Chief in Washington knew the details of all that had happened up to date. My experiences the night before had given me such an uneasy sense of the omniscience of our opponents that I had asked Captain Peters to communicate with the Chief himself, to make doubly sure that the message was not intercepted, but I had my own report to make in any case. I had memorized the letters on the Underwood in the order in which they were arranged, and after a laborious hour I turned a pretty full account of Natalie’s disappearance, Moore’s capture and my own adventures and suspicions into code, including my new address. Then I picked up my cap, which concealed my bandaged head, and sallied forth to send it off as a special delivery letter. Fortunately nothing happened. I felt a good deal like a criminal, and crossed corners to avoid passing in front of policemen. One or two of them seemed to look at me closely, which may have been my imagination or may have been due to my workman’s clothes. But none of them stopped me. It was a curious sensation, however. I had a feeling of insecurity that sent cold chills up my back once or twice and I was exceedingly glad to get back to the house. Being wanted by the police seems exciting and warming in the story-books; but I would never recommend anybody to try it on that account. I did not like it at all! Then, too, if I had been arrested, with Moore gone, the fat _would_ have been in the fire. I mailed my letter and got safely back to the house. Then I called up Tom O’Dowd, _alias_ Larry Malloy. “Is that yersilf, sor? Sure it’s me that has been on the anxious seat the morning through.” “It is, Tom. And forget that ‘sir,’ will you? It’s a fine thing to have one workman calling another workman sir, isn’t it!” There was a pause. “’Twouldn’t do at all, sor,” said Larry. I laughed. “There you go again. Now listen, Tom. Business is good, for I’ve found a little job of work for the two of us to-night. It’s at a lady’s house in the Seventies. ’Tis the house of the lady you saw yesterday at noon. I want you to meet me to-night at the corner of 14th Street and Seventh Avenue, in the little saloon there, and bring your tools with you. Do you understand?” There was a silence. “Hello, Tom?” “Yis, sor —I mean, Mike. What sort of a job would it be this time?” “I’ll tell you when I see you.” “What’s the address, Mike?” I told him, laughing. “And what toime should I meet you?” “Make it ten o’clock sharp, Tom.” “All right. I’ll be there. Good-by,” and he rang off.