“Dey’re out rubberin’ at a set of buffalo robes Kid Brady staked his girl to,” answered the youth. “Some say he paid $900 for de skins. Dey’re swell all right enough.” “I hear Brady has been working at his old trade for nearly a year,” said the detective. “He doesn’t travel with the gang any more, does he?” “He’s workin’, all right,” said the red sweater, “but—say, sport, are you trailin’ anything in the fur line? A job in a plumbin’ shop don’ match wid dem skins de Kid’s girl’s got on.” Ransom overtook the strolling couple on an empty street near the river bank. He touched the Kid’s arm from behind. “Let me see you a moment, Brady,” he said, quietly. His eye rested for a second on the long fur scarf thrown stylishly back over Molly’s left shoulder. The Kid, with his old-time police hating frown on his face, stepped a yard or two aside with the detective. “Did you go to Mrs. Hethcote’s on West 7—th street yesterday to fix a leaky water pipe?” asked Ransom. “I did,” said the Kid. “What of it?” “The lady’s $1,000 set of Russian sables went out of the house about the same time you did. The description fits the ones this lady has on.” “To h—Harlem with you,” cried the Kid, angrily. “You know I’ve cut out that sort of thing, Ransom. I bought them sables yesterday at—” The Kid stopped short. “I know you’ve been working straight lately,” said Ransom. “I’ll give you every chance. I’ll go with you where you say you bought the furs and investigate. The lady can wear ’em along with us and nobody’ll be on. That’s fair, Brady.” “Come on,” agreed the Kid, hotly. And then he stopped suddenly in his tracks and looked with an odd smile at Molly’s distressed and anxious face. “No use,” he said, grimly. “They’re the Hethcote sables, all right. You’ll have to turn ’em over, Moll, but they ain’t too good for you if they cost a million.” Molly, with anguish in her face, hung upon the Kid’s arm. “Oh, Kiddy, you’ve broke my heart,” she said. “I was so proud of you—and now they’ll do you—and where’s our happiness gone?” “Go home,” said the Kid, wildly. “Come on, Ransom—take the furs. Let’s get away from here. Wait a minute—I’ve a good mind to—no, I’ll be d–––– if I can do it—run along, Moll—I’m ready, Ransom.” Around the corner of a lumber-yard came Policeman Kohen on his way to his beat along the river. The detective signed to him for assistance. Kohen joined the group. Ransom explained. “Sure,” said Kohen. “I hear about those saples dat vas stole. You say you have dem here?” Policeman Kohen took the end of Molly’s late scarf in his hands and looked at it closely. “Once,” he said, “I sold furs in Sixth avenue. Yes, dese are saples. Dey come from Alaska. Dis scarf is vort $12 and dis muff—” “Biff!” came the palm of the Kid’s powerful hand upon the policeman’s mouth. Kohen staggered and rallied. Molly screamed. The detective threw himself upon Brady and with Kohen’s aid got the nippers on his wrist.