There was no obvious reason why Stebbins should trust a detective who was trying to arrest him, but Labar did not feel that this was a time at which the other would consider the point deeply. He was concerned chiefly to hold the man in talk till such time as he was near enough to make a dash. If he could tackle the fellow round the knees, the steep flight of stairs would do the rest. "And who the blazes are you?" demanded Stebbins. The inspector mounted another stair. "I'm Divisional Detective Inspector Labar," he said. "I'm anxious to do the fair thing by you." "What do you want me for?" "I'll tell you all about that later on." Labar's voice was coaxing. "Come on now. You throw me down that gun and we'll have a talk." There was a pause. Labar was sure that he was almost within reach of his man, but his eyes could tell him nothing. It might be fatal to make a miscalculation. Something fell behind him and clattered down the stairs. "There you are," said the voice. "I'll give in." The detective pulled himself to his feet, and groping forward felt an ankle. He moved up two or three steps and thrust his arm through the other's arm. "I knew that you had commonsense," he declared amiably. "Half a moment till I strike a match. It's as dark as the pit in here. We don't want to break our necks." Together they emerged from the front door just as Moreland was thinking of organising a rescue party of one, and as the crash of glass behind them told of a smashed skylight. CHAPTER XVIII There was no charge made against Stebbins that night, and inquiries from the newspapers which were anxious to know more of the cause of the affray were met with a stubborn silence. Labar, in fact, had gone home after searching Stebbins carefully with his own hands. The rest he felt could wait till he had some reasonable time for sleep. A night's detention would do Stebbins no harm, and might put him in a frame of mind to answer some questions that Labar had decided to defer till his own mind was fresh. With eight hours sleep, a bath, and a little medical attention to his hurt, the inspector felt almost as spruce as he looked, when he arrived at Grape Street in the morning. He cleared up a few odds and ends and had Stebbins brought to his room. In the cold light of day that man answered imperfectly to any conception of a desperate gunman. He was a loose, tall man with a thin sallow face and weak chin. He had neither shaved nor brushed his hair, and his shifty eyes were sunk in deep circles. He eyed Labar nervously, as the detective motioned away his escort, and placed a seat where the light from the window would fall on the detained man's face. "Sit down," said the detective pleasantly. "Have a cigarette. You look pretty jagged this morning." In silence Stebbins took the cigarette and seated himself with hunched shoulders on the chair that was indicated. Labar leaned forward and gave him a light.