"Do you care to give out anything, Chief, about the Flanagan job?" asked one of the reporters timidly. "No," said Cleary bluntly. "Have you any clue?" Cleary thought a moment. "We’ll have the men to-morrow." The reporters stepped eagerly forward. "Any details, Chief?" "I’d be likely to give ’em to you fellows to print, wouldn’t I?" said Cleary sarcastically. "But--" "You heard what I said, didn’t you? We’ll have the men to-morrow. Roll that up in your cigarette and smoke it. See what I mean?" "Do you care to comment on what the _Post_ said this evening?" asked a representative of that paper. "What the hell do I care what your dirty, blackmailing sheet says? What the hell do I care?" Cleary left then, and a moment later they heard his heavy voice through the open window, swearing at the horse as he drove away in his light official wagon. In truth, the police were wholly at sea. All day the newspapers had been issuing extras giving new details, or repeating old details of the crime. The hatred that had been loosened in the cottage of the Flanagan sisters had, as it were, poured in black streams into the whole people, and the newspapers had gathered up this stream, confined it, and then, with demands for vengeance, poured it out again on the head of the superintendent of police, and he, in turn, maddened and tortured by criticism, had poured out this hatred on the men who were beneath him; and now, at nightfall, they were going out into the dark city, maddened and tormented themselves, ready to pour it on to any one they might encounter. And it was this same hatred that had sickened the breasts of Kouka and Quinn so that, after a friendship of years, they had quarreled, and were quarreling even now up-stairs in the detectives’ office.