He pulled the
thing out another peg.
"You know it wouldn't do, really. Now, if--" He made as if to still
further increase the current. I surrendered.
"Let up," I begged, "and I will not say a word. Only let up."
He set me free. He never spoke of it once in all the years I knew
him, but now and again he would offer me, with a dry smile, the
use of his battery as "very good for the health." I always declined
with thanks.
[Illustration: About that interview now he drawled.]
I got into Mulberry Street at what might well be called the heroic
age of police reporting. It rang still with the echoes of the
unfathomed Charley Ross mystery. That year occurred the Stewart
grave robbery and the Manhattan Bank burglary--three epoch-making
crimes that each in its way made a sensation such as New York has
not known since. For though Charley Ross was stolen in Philadelphia,
the search for him centered in the metropolis. The three-million-dollar
burglary within the shadow of Police Headquarters gave us Inspector
Byrnes, who broke up the old gangs of crooks and drove those whom
he did not put in jail over the sea to ply their trade in Europe.
Pages:
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249