CHAPTER

WHILE KNUCKLEDUSTER COOLED HIS HEELS in a cell at Grape Street police station Wade got busy on the telephone. His conversation with Garfield at Scotland Yard was short and correct. When he at last laid down the receiver he winked portentously at Rack, the divisional detective inspector who was standing at his elbow.

      Rack scrutinized Wade's brick-red, immobile face steadily. "What's the game?" he demanded.

      "Why"—Wade made a slight gesture in the open palms of his hands—"I take Knuckleduster up to the Yard myself. No other must. I don't take a cab or even handcuff him. Somewhere, somehow, while we are walking along together what happens—?"

      "You take your eyes off him," broke in Rack smilingly.

      "I've never lost a prisoner in my service," protested Wade solemnly, "but if he should chance to get away perhaps it wouldn't be a black mark against me. It might happen by luck that we'd have one or two people to follow him up. Knuckleduster will hot-foot it likely enough to wherever Eston's hang-out may be. It's all a chance but there are men keeping an eye on the little lady who brought him out to-night and we'll be able to pick him up again."

      Knuckleduster Jim was surly when the deputation of two detectives accompanied by a jailer called on him in his cell. He felt that luck had played him a shabby trick. He was reclining in his shirt-sleeves on the thick board couch glumly contemplating his stockinged feet when the door opened and shut again with a clang.

      "Well, Jim, "said Wade cheerfully. "Been thinking it over?"

      Knuckleduster's gaze never shifted from his feet. He sat glum and silent.

      "Come, my man," said Rack sharply. "Pull yourself together. We want to help you all we can."

      The prisoner gave a short, rasping laugh. "Say—I know all about that," he sneered.

      Rack laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. "I hate to see a man go down because he's been played for a sucker by someone else. You've been let in for this. I guess that man you dropped across down at Twyford is pretty bad. Suppose you go down for attempted murder? Don't you hold out too much hopes on Eston, my lad. He may be in the pen himself to-morrow. Where will you be then? Better cough up and give us a hand."

      Knuckleduster gave a contemptuous grunt. "Say your little piece," he sneered. "What am I?"

      "Just a blame fool," retorted Rack. "You don't know who are your friends."

      "Yes, I do." Jim's upper lip contorted so they could see his gums. "Your bluff don't go. Just you chew on that."

      A quick glance passed between the two detectives. They realized that it was hopeless. Nothing they could do or say was likely to move the crook. His mind was plainly made up to defy them and when a criminal of Knuckleduster's caliber is obdurate coaxing and threats are equally futile.

      "Get your boots and coat on, "ordered Wade. "You're coming with me."

      "Where to?" Jim swung himself up and languidly began to thrust one arm in the sleeve of his coat.

      "Up to New Scotland Yard. Mr. Garfield wants to have a talk with you."

      Slowly, rather as one voluntarily condescending to favor than as being forced to a course of action whether he willed or not, Knuckleduster assembled his attire. Rack pressed the bell that summoned the jailer and presently the judas hole that enabled one to see the interior of a cell from without, vithout opening the door, dropped back. At Rack's nod the jailer ope-ned'the door and they passed into the corridor, Wade's hand encircling the prisoner's wrist.

      As they walked into the big bare chargeroom Jim remembered something. "We coming back here!" he demanded.

      "Sure thing," said Wade. "Why!"

      "Only there's that stuff they took off me. I don't want to lose that."

      The usual formality of search had been made when he had been brought to the charge-room, but Wade being in a hurry had not followed the usual custom of making an inventory. Nor had he confined himself to merely relieving the prisoner of knife, matches, and other articles with which he might do injury. He had simply cleared his pockets and left examination till later.

      "You won't lose any of it that you are properly entitled to," said Wade. To the station sergeant in charge of the room he added, "You might send it along to the Yard if you don't mind—I'd like to look it over some time."

      If Knuckleduster had suspected the elaborate arrangements that had been made in order that he might once again take the air of freedom, be might have been grateful. On the other hand, he might not. As they strolled down Regent Street towards Trafalgar Square, he was restlessly on the alert. All Wade's genial approaches at conversation were wasted on him. He did not intend to talk—even about the weather. One never knew these bulls from Scotland Yard.

      It was in Cockspur Street that chance took a hand. A stout man, lumbering heavily in pursuit of an overloaded bus brushed blindly into the detective-sergeant. Wade staggered back and his grip on his prisoner loosened. In an instant Jim had wrenched himself free, while the detective measured his length on the pavement.

      So far as Knuckleduster was concerned, it was fortunate that an empty taxi-cab should glide slowly by at that moment. He pulled open the door and stood on the runningboard for a second while he addressed the driver.

      "Chancery Lane," he said, "and rush it."

      Satisfied that his injunction was being obeyed he slipped inside and flung himself upon the cushions with a grin. Circumstances had fallen his way and having a large stock of human nature, Knuckleduster was inclined to take the credit to himself. At any rate he had gained full advantage from them. It was not every man who could escape from custody in broad daylight in a frequented street with the daring and cleanness that he had shown.

      His self-congratulation might have been less undiluted had he known that another taxi-cab containing four men was rolling along not fifty yards behind him. Further back still, Wade and the fat man who had been the original cause of the contretemps were walking amicably together towards Scotland Yard.

      "As good as a picture-show," declared the fatman. "You've missed your vocation, Wade. You ought to be on the stage. "

      "I reckon Knuckleduster is riding away now and hugging himself at his own, cleverness," said Wade. "Well, we've got several ends to work on now—things ought to be coming our way pretty soon."

      Meanwhile as Knuckleduster fondly imagined, he was being carried farther and farther away from the instruments of justice. The luck that had sent the cab along just at the precise psychological moment never occurred to him as odd. Yet he was no fool. He knew that the chances were thaf Wade had had time after his recovery to take the number of the cab. In any event, taxi-cabs were always easily traced.

      That was why he had given Chancery Lane as a direction in which to drive. Chancery Lane could afford no hint to those who followed up his trail. Within easy walking distance of that thoroughfare there were tubes, omnibuses, and trams to every part of London. It would be odd if, in the circumstances, he couldn't make a clean get-away. Yet he overlooked one fact—a fact which came as a shock to him when he realized it. He had no money. Every article of value he had on him had been taken when he was searched at Grape Street.

      Knuckleduster cursed fluently as he thrust his hands hastily through his pockets with a faint hope that something might have been overlooked. It was vain.

      In ordinary circumstances the prospect of trouble with a bilked taxi-driver wouid have weighed little on his mind. Now, however, he could not afford to have an altercation, which might end in the intervention of the police.

      The cab slowed tip at a slight block in the traffic and Knuckleduster cautiously unlatched the door. Standing on the running-board, he watched his opportunity and dropped off in the roadway somewhere near the Law Courts. Then he took to his heels in the direction of Kingsway where he plunged off to the right. Meanwhile, four men in the other taxi were gliding behind in easy pursuit. Not till he slowed to a walk did the cab stop to let two men emerge, who sauntered in the same general direction while the cab itself kept well in the background.

      Knuckleduster had got away—at the end of a piece of string.

      In twenty minutes' easy walking he came to one of those severe Victorian by-streets of Bloomsbury, lined with the tall, ugly basement houses so familiar to the Bloomsbury boarder. He ascended the half-dozen steps to the front door and pressed the bell three times. The door opened without any obvious person behind it and Knuckleduster passed within.

      Outside a couple of men strolled casually by and at the top of the street a taxi, obeying some unobtrusive signal, halted and Chief Detective Inspector Garfield and Jimmie Silverdale descended.