It had been Monday afternoon when Helen had called at Eighth Avenue Annie's, leaving a payment of one hundred and ninety dollars on account; it was now just gathering dark of Tuesday, and so certain was Don that the dawning of the following day would bring the remainder of the thousand that he was making his very definite plans for sliding out of town--quickly. He had allowed his beard to grow; that would help some. Perhaps it wouldn't fool the eyes of a dick who knew him well--and many of them did--but it added materially to his chances. The cops, since he had no successful job to his credit, wouldn't expect him to be in funds. The thing to do, he reasoned, was the thing he wouldn't be expected to do; therefore with fifty of the one hundred and ninety dollars he had got from Helen--previously diminished by an even hundred that he owed his old hag protector--he had sent Annie out among the secondhand shops of Eighth Avenue to gather a wardrobe, a gentleman's wardrobe, at reasonable prices. "Nuttin' flashy," he had warned; "respectable-lookin', but none of the race-track stuff, see." And so Eighth Avenue Annie went forth among the clothing shops where stained, ancient garments are sponged, pressed, and advertised "Just Like New." True enough, Annie took her own reward for this service; to the suit of blue serge for which she paid twelve dollars and ninety-five cents, she affixed a price tag which read twenty-four dollars and ninety-five cents, and, as you might expect, put the difference into her own capacious and ever-hungry pocket. There seems to be some persistent destiny that has the habit of sending policemen past a certain spot at a certain moment. It is always happening, as an almost daily glance at your morning newspaper will bear affirmative witness. As Eighth Avenue Annie was engaged in purchasing Don Haskins' get-away outfit, Detective Sergeant John Henry Tish passed the door of Abramson's dark, gloomy and somewhat odorous "Clothes Bought and Sold" establishment and chanced to glance within. Detective Sergeant Tish was not perhaps nearly so good a detective as he thought himself to be, but he had a good record for arrests and convictions; when he made a "pinch" something usually came of it. He had been recently assigned to this district, on the fringe of the old Tenderloin, and he wasn't so well acquainted as he might have been. But he knew Eighth Avenue Annie; he had seen her in Jefferson Market Court not a great many months before, and Annie's gargoyle face, with the narrow, red eyes, her bulging, muscular shoulders, were not easily forgotten. "Humph!" grunted Sergeant Tish. "The old hag is buyin' somebody some new rags--that is some rags that was new--one time. Looks as if there might be something in it."