Fifteen minutes had passed, as mentioned, and from this time matters moved decisively and swiftly, with all the energies of these masterful detectives instinctively strained for what each knew must be a final move, and all operating to produce the one desirable culmination of their joint endeavors. In response to Badger’s command, Conley sprang up and began to search Patsy, fiercely thrusting his hand into one pocket and then another. “Leave the linings,” suggested Patsy, with a defiant grin. He knew that he had on his person only one article that would point to his vocation, which he was prepared to deny in the face even of that. It came to light in a moment—his trusty revolver. “Aha! what’s this?” cried Conley, as he yanked the weapon from Patsy’s hip pocket. “So you carry a gun, do you?” “Sure I do,” asserted Patsy coolly. “You’d carry a gun, too, if there were as many rats in your cellar as there are in mine.” “It’s you who are the rat,” Badger angrily growled, as his confederate displayed the weapon. “You’re wrong, mister,” insisted Patsy. “I’m a ratter, but no rat.” “What d’ye mean by that?” snarled Conley fiercely. “I mean that I’m a hunter of rats,” said Patsy, with dry significance. “You’re a detective,” cried Badger. “That’s what he is, Amos,” supplemented Vic Clayton, white with increased apprehensions. “He must be one of the Boston force.” “No, I’m not.” “Not one of the force?” “Nothing of the kind.” “If you are lying, youngster, the lie will as surely cost you your life——” What more Badger would have uttered can only be conjectured, for, while he was speaking, fiercely shaking his fist at Patsy’s helpless head, there sounded from the gravel driveway outside and over the hollow planking of the veranda the heavy fall of hurrying feet. “Who’s this?” cried Claudia, starting affrightedly from her chair. “The door, Conley!” hissed Badger. “Have the gun ready!” Before Conley could reach the doorway, however, toward which he hastened with Patsy’s revolver in his hand, it was hurriedly opened and a sallow-featured, green-eyed rascal bounded breathlessly into the kitchen. “Oh, it’s Sandy Hyde!” exclaimed Vic, with a little scream of satisfaction. “Who the devil is he?” thought Patsy, sharply regarding the panting scamp. Though this advent of Hyde brought a look of relief to the face of each, Badger kept a taut rein on the threatening business then on hand, and he almost immediately demanded: “What brings you out here, Sandy?” “Wait till I get my breath, and I’ll tell you,” panted Hyde. “I’ve run all the way from the trolley. The chief kept me at work till half an hour ago.” “Is there something wrong at headquarters?” snarled Badger quickly. “What’s that?” muttered Patsy mentally. “A spy from the chief’s office, or I’ll eat my boots! By thunder! it’s no wonder that this case has baffled the efforts of the Boston force.”