"That is true, Haggerty. I had a debt to pay." Crawford spun a
billiard ball down the table.

"Mr. Crawford, I'm going t' show you that I'm a good sport. You've
challenged me. All right. I want that man, an' by th' Lord Harry, I'm
going t' get him. I'm going t' put my hand on his shoulder an' say
'Come along!' Cash ain't everything, even in my business. I want t'
show it's th' game, too. I don't want money in my pockets for winking
my eye."

"You'll have hard work."

"How?"

"He has burned the pads of his fingers and thumbs," blurted out Forbes.

Crawford made an angry gesture.

A Homeric laugh from Haggerty. "I don't want his fingers now; this
bottle an' these emeralds are enough for me." He stuffed the jewels
away. "Where's th' phone?"

"In the hall, under the stairs."

"Good night."

The nights of Poe and the grim realities of Balzac would not serve to
describe that chase. The magnificent vitality of that man Haggerty yet
fills me with wonder. He borrowed a roadster from Killigrew's garage,
and hummed away toward New York. On the way he laid his plans of
battle, winnowed the chaff from the grain. He understood the necessity
of thinking and acting quickly. A sporting proposition, that was it.
He wanted just then not so much the criminal as the joy of finding him
against odds and laying his hand on his shoulder: just to show them all
that he wasn't a has-been.