The detective's olive face was the color of burnt pottery as he flipped the receiver on the hook, thrust his knee against the door and charged out of the booth and into the drug-store. He wheeled, turned his coat collar up, drew down his hat and dashed outside as an astonished clerk leaned over the prescription counter and stared after him. The message that Delaney had sent over the snow-crusted wires, and along the underground conduits, was laden with menace. It drove Drew westward through the drifts like a man who had a whip held over him. He crossed two avenues before he sighted a taxi. He charged after this, sprang to the running board, and shouted into the driver's muffled ear. "Drive like sin--full speed and more--up Fifth Avenue! I'll tell you when to stop! The devils are not going to kill that little lady if I can help it," he added, as he opened the door and climbed inside the taxi. CHAPTER ELEVEN "THE CLOSING NET" Night was falling upon the greatest city in the world. After night would come the myriads of electric lights in the huge Broadway signs--the surface cars creeping through the snow-fall like glow worms--the muffled pedestrians and the chain-tired taxis, with their well-groomed patrons, hastening to ballrooms, cabarets and theaters more luxurious than any dreamed of by Lucullus. Into the tide of this forming stream of wealth, Drew's taxi turned and ground northward through the drifts. The detective had given no definite address. He wanted the air of the Avenue for at least two blocks, before he reached the Stockbridge mansion. He signaled as a familiar corner came in view. He turned his overcoat collar up to his chin and stepped out, as the driver brought the taxi to a slow stop at the curb. "Stay around the corner!" he ordered. "Stay, till I send word. Here's a dollar for supper. Get that and wait!" The driver touched his cap and reached for the bill. Drew swung northward, threw back his head, and plowed along the snow-laden sidewalk. Delaney's statement over the telephone had stirred every drop of red blood in his body. Loris was in danger! This nerved him on. He clenched his gloved fists as he reached the first side street. He crossed the wheel-churned snow, with his lips gripped in a hard white line. His eyes raised in heavy-lidded scrutiny of the towering turrets and spires of the mansion. Lights shone from its windows as if in defiance to the powers of darkness which encompassed the dwelling. A snow-crusted form stepped out from a basement shelter. Drew raised his arm as a barrier when a figure of a man lurched in his direction. "Hello, O'Toole!" he blurted, recognizing the operative. "What are _you_ doing here?" O'Toole jerked a mittened finger in the direction of the mansion. "Our lad's in there," he said, thrashing his arms and flipping his finger for a second time. "Harry Nichols!" he explained.