DICK STANTON.

"You treacherous hound!" I angrily and indignantly exclaimed, as I gave Stanton a hearty shaking when I learned to a certainty that he had given a signal to call a crowd of desperadoes to his assistance.

As the roughs began to pile out of the darkened saloon, the false detective gave vent to a nervous laugh. He was afraid he would not be rescued, and yet did not see how it could be possible for me to retain him as a prisoner in the face of these friends of his.

I was, however, determined to do so.

I was considerably riled up just about then, and could have laid down my life rather than have let him escape.

I set my teeth.

Through them I hissed:

"Stanton, you cannot escape me! You know me well in private life, and know that I am a determined man—a man of my word. Now, then, I place the muzzle of my revolver to your head, and by all that is holy I swear to shoot you rather than let you escape."

Stanton gasped.

A hollow moan followed, and he became paler than a corpse.

He knew me for a man of my word, and when I had thus spoken he was positive that any attempt at rescue would cause me to keep my word good.

Suddenly he brightened.

His tone was hopeful.

"How can I help it now?" he said; "I am helpless now, either one way or the other."

There was a ring of something like triumph in his tone.

"Not so," I said sternly. "Order them back. You can do that, and must do it! You know the alternative."

Stanton quivered and shook in his boots.

He was in a bad fix.

Instead of having the upper-hand of me, as he expected, he was precisely under my thumb.

He saw all the ins and outs of his predicament at a glance.

He looked up at me in an uneasy, scared manner, and then at the help he had summoned by that secret cry of distress.

He knew not what to do.

But decide he must, and that without further delay.

By this time the villainous gang he had summoned were beginning to close in on me.

I pressed the muzzle more firmly against his temple, and I heard his teeth chatter.

"Go back, boys!"

So he implored them.

"And furthermore, do not reveal your identity," I sternly ordered him.

The gang halted in surprise.

They were stumped by his pleading with them not to make any attempt at rescuing him.

"What in thunder did you give the secret cry for, then?" demanded a gruff and angry voice. "Who are you, anyhow? Give your number."

"Do it at your peril!" I hissed in Stanton's ear.

He understood the significance of the slightly harder pressure of the deadly weapon against his temple.

I grimly maintained silence, save when I whispered a few threatening words in the ear of the false detective.

It was a moment of quiet, yet intense excitement.

Bound by a terrible oath to answer that signal of distress, the villains had rushed out to the rescue. Yet here was the man who gave it now begging them not to interfere.

They were puzzled, and knew not what to do.

"Give your number," was again called out by the same gruff voice as before.

"At your peril!"

So I again breathed into the false detective's ear, and he made no reply.

"Now, then, let's get away from this spot," I said, in a low tone; and still holding firmly to my prisoner, I began slowly retreating, taking good care always to have an eye on the gang, who were undecided what to do.

I quickly put a different aspect on the state of affairs when I got a chance, and I gave the night-call for a policeman.

The gang continued to follow.

Had Stanton given his number, they were ready to rush in and rescue him.

But for a good reason he did not give his number, and when two blue-coats, having heard my summons, swiftly approached the spot, the villainous crew's indecision vanished as well as themselves.

Again warning Stanton not to reveal his identity, I met and satisfied the guardians of the peace as to who I was.

They offered to accompany me to the station with my prisoner.

I declined their proffered services.

Having been assured that I considered all danger past, they saluted and returned to their respective beats, and I resumed my course with my prisoner.

Stanton was very chopfallen.

I had nipped his scheme of rescue in the bud, and he knew that he was now in for it. His action, he felt sure, would kill all sympathy I might have previously had for him.

Since his plan had failed, he knew it would have been better for him had he never attempted to put it into execution.

I kept silence.

And Stanton never said a word.

I reached the place at last where I wanted to keep him in confinement.

It was at the house of a deputy sheriff, who had built several strong cells in his cellar, for occasions similar to the present. And it not infrequently happens that when a detective has captured a particular prisoner it is a decided benefit to be able to keep the capture a profound secret for a while.

The place afforded the means of keeping the capture a secret.

Fortunately the deputy was at home, and I soon had Stanton locked up in one of the cells.

"Well," said I, as I entered the cell with the false detective, "here you are, in a safe place, where the dogs won't bite you."

"What do you intend doing with me?" the rascal tremblingly asked me.

"Whatever I think you may deserve having done with you," was the grim reply.

"Howard, I—I—didn't think any one was in that saloon, or may be I wouldn't a-given that signal," he faltered.

"You know you lie!"

He winced.

He saw he could not fool or bamboozle me in the slightest degree.

"Now, then," I said, presently, "are you going to make a clean breast of it?"

"Yes," he loathfully answered.

The Black Hole, so called, crossed my mind.

"Who did you have in the Black Hole?"

"Black Hole! What Black Hole?"

"You can't come that. I know pretty much all about the old sugar-house and Cap, and the kind of a business you carry on there."

"How did you find out?"

"Never mind that. The Black Hole is in the cellar under the store-house?"

"Yes," he admitted.

"You had a prisoner in it?"

"Yes."

"Who was he?"

"I don't know."

"Describe him."

"A young fellow."

"A young fellow, inside of twenty, and of a slim build."

The description tallied.

"When did you last see him?"

"Just about dark."

"He was safe then?"

"He was."

"Could he have escaped from the Black Hole, think you?"

Stanton gave a great start.

"It is possible," he said. "They thought it a mighty strong place, but I didn't. A fellow with any grit could have dug his way out."

That settled it to my satisfaction.

Shadow had been the prisoner in the Black Hole. That he had got out somehow I had received ample proof by the hand thrust up through the pile of junk holding that note for me.

I pumped Stanton for all he was worth. He kept back many things, I knew; but I pretended to believe that he had made a clean breast of it.

I had seen him glance about his cell, and knew that he hoped to be able to make his escape.

"Ain't you a-goin' to take these irons off?" he inquired, holding up his wrists, just as I was about to take my departure.

"Not at all."

"Why?"

"I don't intend that you shall have your hands free to dig your way out," with which I left him, decidedly crestfallen in demeanor.

A few nights later I spent the entire period of darkness in the neighborhood of the old sugar-house. Leaving just before dawn, I was on my way home, when, as I drew near a corner, I was suddenly confronted by a slenderly-built mulatto.

Gliding up before me, he extended his hand, and uttered one word:

"Shadow!"