"Sound asleep. Mind ye, not a word of this to Patsy till she _has_ to be
told. Remember that, John."

"Well, I'll go," said the young man, and hurried away.

Q. Fogerty lived on Eleventh street, according to his card. Arthur drove
down town, making good time. The chauffeur asked surlily if this was to
be "an all-night job," and Arthur savagely replied that it might take a
week. "Can't you see, Jones, that I'm in great trouble?" he added. "But
you shall be well paid for your extra time."

"All right, sir. That's no more than just," said the man. "It's none of
my affair, you know, if a young lady gets stolen."

Arthur was wise enough to restrain his temper and the temptation to kick
Jones out of the limousine. Five minutes later they paused before a
block of ancient brick dwellings and found Fogerty's number. A card over
the bell bore his name, and Arthur lit a match and read it. Then he rang
impatiently.

Only silence.

Arthur rang a second time; waited, and rang again. A panic of fear took
possession of him. At this hour of night it would be well-nigh
impossible to hunt up another detective if Fogerty failed him. He
determined to persist as long as there was hope. Again he rang.

"Look above, sir," called Jones from his station in the car.