Never-Fail Blake. Stringer Arthur

cigar.

      "They 're just where we are—at a standstill," acknowledged the Commissioner.

      "And that's where we 'll stay!" heavily contended the Second Deputy.

      The entire situation was an insidiously flattering one to Blake. Every one else had failed. They were compelled to come to him, their final resource.

      "Why?" demanded his superior.

      "Because we have n't got a man who can turn the trick! We have n't got a man who can go out and round up Binhart inside o' seven years!"

      "Then what is your suggestion?" It was Copeland who spoke, mild and hesitating.

      "D'you want my suggestion?" demanded Blake, warm with the wine-like knowledge which, he knew, made him master of the situation.

      "Of course," was the Commissioner's curt response.

      "Well, you 've got to have a man who knows Binhart, who knows him and his tricks and his hang outs!"

      "Well, who does?"

      "I do," declared Blake.

      The Commissioner indulged in his wintry smile.

      "You mean if you were n't tied down to your Second Deputy's chair you could go out and get him!"

      "I could!"

      "Within a reasonable length of time?"

      "I don't know about the time! But I could get him, all right."

      "If you were still on the outside work?" interposed Copeland.

      "I certainly would n't expect to dig him out o' my stamp drawer," was Blake's heavily facetious retort.

      Copeland and the Commissioner looked at each other, for one fraction of a second.

      "You know what my feeling is," resumed the latter, "on this Binhart case."

      "I know what my feeling is," declared Blake.

      "What?"

      "That the right method would 've got him six months ago, without all this monkey work!"

      "Then why not end the monkey work, as you call it?"

      "How?"

      "By doing what you say you can do!" was the Commissioner's retort.

      "How 'm I going to hold down a chair and hunt a crook at the same time?"

      "Then why hold down the chair? Let the chair take care of itself. It could be arranged, you know."

      Blake had the stage-juggler's satisfaction of seeing things fall into his hands exactly as he had manoeuvered they should. His reluctance was merely a dissimulation, a stage wait for heightened dramatic effect.

      "How 'd you do the arranging?" he calmly inquired.

      "I could see the Mayor in the morning. There will be no Departmental difficulty."

      "Then where 's the trouble?"

      "There is none, if you are willing to go out."

      "Well, we can't get Binhart here by pink-tea invitations. Somebody 's got to go out and get him!"

      "The bank raised the reward to eight thousand this week," interposed the ruminative Copeland.

      "Well, it 'll take money to get him," snapped back the Second Deputy, remembering that he had a nest of his own to feather.

      "It will be worth what it costs," admitted the Commissioner.

      "Of course," said Copeland, "they 'll have to honor your drafts—in reason."

      "There will be no difficulty on the expense side," quietly interposed the Commissioner. "The city wants Binhart. The whole country wants Binhart. And they will be willing to pay for it."

      Blake rose heavily to his feet. His massive bulk was momentarily stirred by the prospect of the task before him. For one brief moment the anticipation of that clamor of approval which would soon be his stirred his lethargic pulse. Then his cynic calmness again came back to him.

      "Then what 're we beefing about?" he demanded. "You want Binhart and I 'll get him for you."

      The Commissioner, tapping the top of his desk with his gold-banded fountain pen, smiled. It was almost a smile of indulgence.

      "You know you will get him?" he inquired.

      The inquiry seemed to anger Blake. He was still dimly conscious of the operation of forces which he could not fathom. There were things, vague and insubstantial, which he could not understand. But he nursed to his heavy-breathing bosom the consciousness that he himself was not without his own undivulged powers, his own private tricks, his own inner reserves.

      "I say I 'll get him!" he calmly proclaimed. "And I guess that ought to be enough!"