Cork was pulling at his ear. “I knifed Malone,” said he. “I was the one the cop wanted.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” said the girl listlessly. “It didn’t make any difference about that.”

“That was all hot air about Wall Street. I don’t do nothin’ but hang out with a tough gang on the East Side.”

“That was all right, too,” repeated the girl. “It didn’t make any difference.”

Cork straightened himself, and pulled his hat down low. “I could get a job at O’Brien’s,” he said aloud, but to himself.

“Good-bye,” said the girl.

“Come on,” said Cork, taking her arm. “I know a place.”

Two blocks away he turned with her up the steps of a red-brick house facing a little park.

“What house is this?” she asked, drawing back. “Why are you going in there?”

A street lamp shone brightly in front. There was a brass name-plate on one side of the closed front doors. Cork drew her firmly up the steps. “Read that,” said he.

She looked at the name on the plate, and gave a cry between a moan and a scream. “No, no, no, Eddie! Oh, my God, no! I won’t let you do that—not now! Let me go! You shan’t do that! You can’t—you mustn’t! Not after you know! No, no! Come away quick! Oh, my God! Please, Eddie, come!”

Half fainting, she reeled, and was caught in the bend of his arm. Cork’s right hand felt for the electric button and pressed it long.

Another cop—how quickly they scent trouble when trouble is on the wing!—came along, saw them, and ran up the steps. “Here! What are you doing with that girl?” he called gruffly.

“She’ll be all right in a minute,” said Cork. “It’s a straight deal.”

“Reverend Jeremiah Jones,” read the cop from the door-plate with true detective cunning.

“Correct,” said Cork. “On the dead level, we’re going to get married.”