"Help! Police! Murder!"
It was a dark, rainy night in March when this thrilling cry, in a man's voice, came from a house in West Thirty-sixth street, New York.
Two detectives were passing along from Seventh avenue, toward Broadway, when the wild appeal brought them to a sudden pause.
"Hark, Old King Brady!" one of them exclaimed. "Did you hear that cry?"
"Somebody in distress, Harry," replied the tall, gaunt old man, as he shot a keen glance around. "This is a dangerous neighborhood."
The stylishly-dressed youth of twenty nodded, felt to see if he had a revolver in his pocket, and pointed at an undertaker's wagon standing in front of one of a row of houses opposite.
"Queer hour for that fellow to be doing business!" he remarked. "There isn't a light in any of that row of houses, yet the undertaker must be in one of them."
"Help! Help!" came the mysterious voice in smothered tones once more.
This time the Secret Service men located the sound.
It came from the house before which the wagon stood.
"By Jove, the undertaker must be making a job for himself!" exclaimed Old King Brady, pushing his big white hat back, and exposing a strong-featured, smooth-shaven face, in the light of a street lamp.
He unbuttoned the old blue frock-coat he wore, disclosing a standing collar and stock, drew out his watch and fob, and added:
"It's just eight o'clock."
"Shall we go over and investigate those cries?" asked Harry Brady, the youth.
"No, not yet. Get in this area. I see the house door opening."
They glided swiftly into the area of a flat house, and keenly watched proceedings.
Old and Young King Brady, as the pair were called, were the two most celebrated detectives in the Secret Service………..
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