"No more excuses, no more extensions of time, no more delays," he concluded—"and no more failures." The twinkle left Irwin’s eyes. "I understand," he said. He could not fail to understand. His superior had been once and for all explicit. Judge Stein, during his service to the public on the bench, had never been called upon to pronounce a sentence of death, but, had he been so called upon, he would have spoken much as he now spoke to Irwin. §7. "I hate to have to tell you this," said Irwin to Quirk at noon in the latter’s shabby law-office, "but if that job isn’t done before to-morrow morning, those affidavits charging you with jury-fixing are going to be turned over to the District-Attorney, and the people that have them are now in a position to make Leighton act on them, too." Irwin also had become specific. The plump Mr. Quirk lost his habitual smile. "It’s a rotten business," he said. "It is," Irwin agreed; "but your arrest would be a worse one—for you." "We may have to go the limit," said Quirk. "Then," said Irwin, "you’d better go it. That’s no affair of mine." §8. "This time," said Quirk, "you’ve got till to-night to make up your mind." He was talking to Police-Lieutenant Donovan. It was just after lunch-time. "What about?" asked Donovan. "Whether you want to bluff us again or lose your job." "We never did bluff you." "Well, then: whether you want to get those letters or get fired. Not _try_ to get them: _get_ them. It’s get them or get out." All the kindliness and good-fellowship was missing from Quirk’s voice. "It’s one thing or the other. We got evidence to fire you on. You knew we had, last time I talked to you. Well, they were easy on you then, Hughie. This time they mean business." Donovan looked at Quirk. "Suppose somebody gets hurt?" he said. Quirk shrugged his shoulders. §9. When Guth came in late in the afternoon, Donovan said: "I got a warrant in my desk for you, Guth. A friend o’ mine swore it out. If I don’t stop him, it means a criminal trial where you won’t have the chance of a goat. You know what it’s for: that little girl up in Fifty-second Street. The only way I can get him to hold off’s for you to get Reddy Rawn to do what you’d ought t’ got him to do long ago. If somebody gets hurt, it ain’t our fault." §10. At eight p.m. in the shadowy alley near Forty-third Street and Third Avenue, Patrolman Guth’s twisted mouth was menacing the darkness. "He’s down at the Forbes factory now," said Guth. "There’s sure to be a fight there to-night, an’ anybody can get in. It’s a cinch." The darkness did not reply. "Anyhow, you got to," said Guth. "The old man’s crazy mad. He says it’s the chair for yours if you fall down this time. Crab Rotello’s got worse. He can’t live the night, an’ the old man says he’s goin’ to have you railroaded soon as Crab cashes in, if you don’t do what he says. He means it, too, Reddy." Out of the darkness came the answer: