In one way this constant surveillance was a distinct comfort to Charlie
Mershone, for it assured him that the retreat of Louise was still
undiscovered. But he must find some way to get rid of his "shadow," in
order that he might proceed to carry out his plans concerning the girl.
During his enforced leisure he invented a dozen apparently clever
schemes, only to abandon them again as unpractical.

One afternoon, while on a stroll, he chanced to meet the bruiser who had
attacked Arthur Weldon at the Waldorf, and been liberally paid by
Mershone for his excellent work. He stopped the man, and glancing
hastily around found that Fogerty was a block in the rear.

"Listen," he said; "I want your assistance, and if you're quick and sure
there is a pot of money, waiting for you."

"I need it, Mr. Mershone," replied the man, grinning.

"There's a detective following me; he's down the street there--a mere
boy--just in front of that tobacco store. See him?"

"Sure I see him. It's Fogerty."

"His name is Riordan."

"No; it's Fogerty. He's no boy, sir, but the slickest 'tec' in the city,
an' that's goin' some, I can tell you."

"Well, you must get him, whoever he is. Drag him away and hold him for
three hours--two--one. Give me a chance to slip him; that's all. Can