" "Stand off, Poll," rejoined the woollen-draper; "I don't want to hurt you. I am too weak to aid you. " "You have extradition papers?" "What sort of a detective do you think I am?" countered O'Higgins. “This is the slavery of the veiled life. What a pity! But why? There was no way over this puzzle, nor under it, nor around it: that men should drink, knowing the inevitable payment. And the less “anything” happened the better. The momentary alarm over, he threw a piece of-wash leather over a bureau, so as to deaden the sound, and instantly broke it open with a small crowbar.
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