style="font-size:15px;"> He had his pistol in his hand.
The undertaker saw him and whipped a revolver out of his hip-pocket.
"Perdition! There's another of them!" he hissed in tones of alarm.
The next moment he aimed his weapon at Young King Brady and fired.
Bang!
The shot echoed loudly through the silent street.
Up went Harry's hands, and he fell prostrate, with blood streaming from a wound on the side of his head.
The driver lashed the horse furiously.
With a snort, the galled beast sprang forward and raced madly along the street toward Broadway, from whence a policeman was running.
"Hello!" yelled the patrolman. "Who fired that shot?"
"Man lying wounded up the street!" shouted the undertaker.
Away dashed the policeman to investigate and the wagon kept on to Sixth avenue, swung around the corner and dashed downtown, under the elevated road.
In the meantime, Old King Brady had risen to his feet.
Realizing that he had been victimized by Mr. Gloom, he tried to open the door.
Finding that it resisted all his efforts, he lit a match, and going hastily into the house, he was astonished to find it empty and untenanted.
In the middle of the parlor floor lay a curious-looking dagger, which looked as if it had been buried in a human body, and the bare boards were stained with the same life fluid.
"There's been a murder committed here," flashed through the detective's mind, as he picked up the knife and put it in his pocket, "and those men have carried away their victim's body in that box!"
He rushed to one of the parlor windows and flung it open, just in time to see Harry get shot. The sight made Old King Brady frantic with fury.
"They've killed the boy and escaped!" he roared.
Then he sprang out the window and landed on his feet in the yard.
It only took him a moment to reach his pupil's side, and lifting the limp form in his arms, carried him to the sidewalk, under the lamp-post.
Here he examined Harry's wound very carefully.
It was only scalp deep, and the rain beating down on his face revived him.
Before the policeman reached the boy, he had regained his senses, and found Old King Brady wiping his face and sticking court-plaster over the cut.
Most of the neighbors had their heads out their windows to see what caused the pistol shot, and the policeman came up panting.
"Oh!" he exclaimed, recognizing the detectives. "It's the Bradys."
"Yes. We had a fuss with the driver of an undertaker's wagon," the old detective explained. "Harry got shot, but it's only a flesh wound."
"I see. How are you feeling now, Young King Brady?"
"A little sore, but otherwise all right," replied the boy, pluckily suppressing a faint feeling, and getting upon his feet. "Where are they?"
"I saw that wagon swing into Broadway and dash downtown," said the policeman.
"Are you able to pursue it, Harry?" asked Old King Brady, in restless tones.
"I think so," the boy replied. "Ride, if you can. It's a suspicious case, Old King Brady. They wouldn't attempt murder to prevent us from prying into this affair, unless they had a powerful reason for it. The policeman had better search that house while we are gone."
"Come on then, my boy. I've got evidence that a dark crime was just committed in that empty house. We'd better verify my suspicions."
And they hastened over to Broadway, boarded a car and were rapidly carried to Fourteenth street, where they alighted to make inquiries.
CHAPTER II.
THE BODY IN THE BOX
A cabman was standing beside his horse at Union Square, and the old detective approached him and asked, hastily:
"Did you see an undertaker's wagon just go by here?"
"Oi did, sor, tin minutes ago," promptly replied the driver.
"In which direction did it go?"
"Turned inter Broadway, an' wint downtown."
"Drive us after it as fast as you can."
"Yis, sor. Get in."
They entered the cab and were driven to Courtlandt street, as different people they spoke to said they had seen the undertaker's wagon as far as that point.
A policeman was seen on the corner, and Harry accosted him with:
"Hello, Bob!"
"Why – Harry – how are you? What are you chasing?"
"After an undertaker's wagon."
"One just left a box in the baggage room at the Pennsylvania depot."
"Look like a coffin?"
"Yes," replied the policeman. "I just came from there. Two men had it. I'll describe them."
And he gave a good description of Sim and Solomon Gloom.
"Thanks. That's the gang we're after," said Harry, when he finished.
And away went the Bradys to the Pennsylvania depot at the foot of Courtlandt street.
It was a suspicion of the Bradys that the mysterious box would be shipped out of the city by rail, that led them to see if the wagon had gone to the depot.
They did not find the box in the baggage room.
But they learned that a man answering Solomon Gloom's description had checked it through to Savannah, Georgia, and it had been sent over the river and was put in the baggage car.
"How soon does that train leave?" asked Harry, quickly.
"The connecting boat goes in three minutes, sir," replied the porter, glancing at his watch.
"Old King Brady, we must go out on that train," said the boy, quickly. "It's our only chance to find out what's in that box."
"Run for the ticket office, then," said the veteran, promptly. "Mr. Gloom is evidently going out on the train with it. If there's any crooked work going on here we may be able to arrest him."
They rushed to the office, procured tickets, and just had time to jump aboard the boat as it pulled out of the slip.
Reaching the Jersey side, they boarded the train.
Seeing nothing of Mr. Gloom in that car, they sat down to map out a course of action, as everything had hitherto been done on the spur of the moment.
Just
