Recovering his breath and the control of his nerves at about the same
time, the detective, his voice trembling in spite of himself, turned to
the man who had dragged him from almost under the big wheels and said:

"Sir, you did save my life! You saved me from a horrible death, and
saying so doesn't begin to thank you or tell you what I mean. If
you'll have the goodness, sir, to call a taxi for me, and come with me
to my hotel, I can then--"

The colonel came to a halting and sudden pause as he saw the face of
the slim little man who had saved him--a face covered with freckles,
which were splotched over the cheeks, the turned-up nose, and reaching
back to the wide-set ears.

"Spotty!--Spotty Morgan!" gasped the detective, as he recognized a New
York gunman, who was supposed to have more than one killing to his
credit, or debit, according as you happen to reckon.

"Spotty Morgan! You--you--here!" gasped the detective.

The rescuer, who had been grinning cheerfully, went white under his
copper freckles.

"My gawd! It's you! Colonel--"

Further words were stopped by the detective's hand placed softly,
quickly, and so dexterously as hardly to be seen by those in the crowd,
over the mouth of the speaker.

"No names--here!" whispered the colonel in the big ear of the man who