While escorting Kerrigan to his home, late that night, McKenna noticed he was being clumsily shadowed by Barney McCarron, who, although very drunk himself, acted as though he had a half-formed idea in his thick pate that Kerrigan and McKenna were hatching some mischief, and therefore sought to throw himself in their way, to learn the particular business they were engaged upon. But his amateur detective work was done so awkwardly that Kerrigan quickly saw through it. Then the two Mollies made up a game to put the policeman to more trouble, and they led him a wild-goose chase. Late at night, McKenna, still blunderingly traced by McCarron, came to a halt at the Columbia House. He found the doors all fastened and no porter up to admit him. Just then McCarron came along. “What are you trying to do?” asked the hiccoughing and worn-out policeman. “Bedad, but I’m sakin’ for an admission to me boardin’-house!” responded McKenna. “Yes,” put in Kerrigan, “he’s shut out enthirely, an’ how he’ll get within, is the question! It wor different wid me, when I wor in the lock-up! I wanted a way out! He wants a way in!” McCarron laughed, and suggested that McKenna might try a window. “Perhaps some of them may be unfastened!” “No! I prefer you’d do that job for me!” answered the agent, staggering and leaning against the side of the house. “You know you are an officer, an’ can safely go in! If I wor to do so, perhaps you’d jist arrest an’ take me to jail for an attempted burglary!” Notwithstanding McCarron’s repeated assurances that he would do no such thing, McKenna refused to touch a single shutter, or sash, and finally prevailed upon the policeman to seek entrance to his hotel through a casement and then unlock the front door for him. Kerrigan and the detective enjoyed the fun, beholding the unsteady efforts the drunken watchman made, raising the window and then ungracefully climbing into the house. But they soon gained entrance and went upstairs, after lighting a candle at the office counter, McCarron still following, Kerrigan noiselessly bringing up the rear. Once in McKenna’s apartment, the policeman was offered a chair and Kerrigan told that he could go. The Bodymaster obeyed. And then McCarron set about the task of extracting information from McKenna regarding the Yost murder. The detective was acting the part of a drunken man to perfection, while McCarron was really much intoxicated, but trying to appear very wise and sober. Taking the flaring candle in his hand, he got down on his knees and endeavored, with an owlish assumption of superior intelligence, quite ridiculous in him at any time, to explain to his only auditor precisely how and where certain acts had been done, the night of the murder, illustrating his meaning by pointing out with uncertain finger, on the irregular figures of the carpet, an imaginary map of the locality and the proceedings. It was as much as the operative could possibly do