"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…
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