That was the last Sergeant Flannagan had seen either of
Billy Byrne or his companion. The trail had ceased at the
open window of the washroom at the rear of the restaurant,
and search as he would be had been unable to pick it up
again.
No one in Kansas City had seen two men that night
answering the descriptions Flannagan had been able to give--
at least no one whom Flannagan could unearth.
Finally he had been forced to take the Kansas City chief
into his confidence, and already a dozen men were scouring
such sections of Kansas City in which it seemed most likely an
escaped murderer would choose to hide.
Flannagan had been out himself for a while; but now he
was in to learn what progress, if any, had been made. He had
just learned that three suspects had been arrested and was
waiting to have them paraded before him.
When the door swung in and the three were escorted into
his presence Sergeant Flannagan gave a snort of disgust,
indicative probably not only of despair; but in a manner
registering his private opinion of the mental horse power and
efficiency of the Kansas City sleuths, for of the three one was
a pasty-faced, chestless youth, even then under the influence of
cocaine, another was an old, bewhiskered hobo, while the
third was unquestionably a Chinaman.
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