“You’ve got to get him, boys—get him or bust!” said a tired policechief, pounding a heavy fist on a table. The detectives he bellowed the wordsat looked at the floor. They had done their best and failed. Failure meant“resignation” for the police chief, return to the hated work of pounding thepavements for them—they knew it, and, knowing it, could summon no gesture ofbravado to answer their chief’s. Gunmen, thugs, hi-jackers, loft-robbers,murderers, they could get them all in time—but they could not get the man hewanted.
“Get him—to hell with expense—I’ll give you carte blanche—but get him!” said ahaggard millionaire in the sedate inner offices of the best private detectivefirm in the country. The man on the other side of the desk, man hunterextraordinary, old servant of Government and State, sleuthhound without a peer,threw up his hands in a gesture of odd hopelessness. “It isn’t the money, Mr.De Courcy—I’d give every cent I’ve made to get the man you want—but I can’tpromise you results—for the first time in my life.” The conversation was ended.
“Get him? Huh! I’ll get him, watch my smoke!” It was young ambition speaking ina certain