O'SULLIVAN AND "FRANK WILLIAMS."

THREE OF THE CARLSON FAMILY.

After sending for Dr. Brandt and his colleague, the two police captains lost no time in putting the Carlsons on the rack. It was evident from the start that the family had known all about the condition of the interior of the cottage for days, if not weeks. They had hesitated about notifying the police, however, for fear that difficulty would be experienced in renting the cottage if the facts became known; while, at the same time, they were afraid to destroy and efface the evidences of the crime that they realized had been committed. Mrs. Carlson did not need any pressing to tell what she knew.From her story it was developed that on March 20th a tall, slender, pale-faced young man called at her house to learn the rent of the cottage. He was told he could have it for $12 monthly. The amount suited him, and he paid a month's rent in advance, without being requested to do so, and received the key. He went on to say that his name was Frank Williams, that he had two brothers and a sister, who would live with him, and that the sister would keep house. They were coming from Baltimore, and would join him in a day or two. He took the keys and went away, but the sister never came.

For a month there were no outward signs that the mysterious Frank Williams intended to occupy the building he had rented. Mrs. Carlson became very uneasy.

Nearly seven weeks prior to the disappearance of the physician, or to be precise, on Wednesday, March 20th, just about the noon hour, a man of medium size, with dark hair and eyes, a full mustache, a derby hat, pulled well down over his forehead, and a heavy overcoat buttoned up around him, had knocked at the door of the little cottage occupied by the Carlsons. Mrs. Carlson herself was absent at the time, but her husband, Jonas, Charles, their son, and the latter's wife, Annie, were at home at the time. The latter was a domestic servant in theemploy of a prominent family on Michigan avenue; but—by another peculiar coincidence—this happened to be her "day off," the first she had taken for several weeks. Jonas Carlson answered the door, and the stranger inquired if he (Carlson) was the owner of the cottage on the front lot. Receiving an answer in the affirmative, he expressed a desire to rent it. Carlson secured the keys, and the two men went down to the cottage, entering by the rear door. The would-be tenant gave a cursory glance over the interior, and, remarking that there were six rooms, just the number that he required, asked what the rent would be. Carlson named the sum of twelve dollars monthly, to be paid in advance, but the stranger demurred and expressed the opinion that eleven dollars was quite enough. Finding, however, that Carlson was unwilling to lower his figure a single dime, the man at last remarked: "All right, I'll take it and give you the money now." The landlord and his new tenant then returned to the former's cottage, when the latter paid over the first month's rent. Charles Carlson wrote the receipt, and while this was being done the man remarked that he worked in the city, that he was one of three brothers, that his sister was coming from Baltimore to keep house for them, and that it might be several days and perhaps a week before they could move in.He also added that he had ordered some furniture, and that it would arrive in a few days. When asked his name he replied "Frank Williams," and the receipt was made out accordingly. Meanwhile, the three Carlsons had ample opportunity to "size up" the individual who was soon to be their neighbor, and his features were impressed on their memories. Annie Carlson and her husband especially noticed a peculiar way he had of glancing around, as well as a kind of sinister expression of his mouth. Having secured the receipt and the keys the man went away. On the third day following, about seven o'clock in the evening, a few articles of furniture were delivered at the cottage. Young Carlson strolled over to the place, and saw "Frank Williams," assisted by a man he described as dark, short and slender, together with the expressman, carrying in the goods. He passed the time of day with the expressman and found that the latter was a Swede. Weeks passed without any sign of activity on the part of the new tenant and nothing was seen of him until April 20, when he again called upon the Carlson's to pay the second month's rent. At this time young Carlson remembered that there was a trunk and a lounge in the cottage belonging to a former occupant, and "Williams" consented to help him move the articles out. While doing this an opportunity was afforded him of looking around thehouse, and he was particularly struck with the meagre character of the furniture. There was nothing on the bedstead but a spring mattress and comforter, the carpet was cheap and the chairs, washstand and other articles were of the most common kind. The elder Mrs. Carlson received the rent this time, and with a woman's natural inquisitiveness, she asked the man what was the matter that his people did not move in. He replied that his sister had been taken "awfully sick," and was in the Sister's Hospital. Mrs. Carlson replied that she liked to see people move in when the house was rented, as it did not look well to have it rented. To this "Williams" responded that it might be a week and perhaps a little more before his people were finally settled. Before leaving the three had a pitcher of beer together. After this the Carlsons were on thequi vivefor their new neighbors, but the week passed, and two more, and still the cottage was unoccupied. On Monday, May 13—Dr. Cronin had then been missing for eleven days—the Carlsons had another visitor. He was a short stout man, full chested, with light hair and complexion. To Mrs. Carlson he said that Frank Williams had sent him to pay the rent, that his sister was still so sick that they could not take possession. But by this time the old lady had made up her mind that if the people couldn't beginhousekeeping she couldn't take the rent, and she said so. The visitor tried to argue her out of her determination, but in vain. She knew that the little frame building was eyed with suspicion by the keen-witted Germans that lived in the neighborhood, and that it had become current gossip that there were queer tenants in the apparently vacant house. The few pieces of furniture was all that any one had seen carried into the place, and yet it was, to all appearances, the home of somebody. No woman had been seen around, although once in a while a light could be seen burning at night through the closed blinds, and a piece of bed quilt had been stretched over one of the street windows. All these things had tended to make Mrs. Carlson suspicious, and although she said nothing about them, she gave her visitor to understand that she did not propose to have the place apparently unoccupied any longer, and that moreover she wanted to put it in the market. Upon this the man suggested that she could do this and still let them have the use of the rooms; but Mrs. Carlson could not be shaken from her position, because, as she sagely remarked, people who thought of buying it would want to get into it to see what it was like. Moreover, she added it would be another week before the rent was due. The man admitted this but said that "Frank Williams wanted to be sure of the place as he didnot want to lose it." All his arguments, however, were of no avail, the old lady would not take the money under the circumstances, and the man departed.

Matters went on in this way until May 18th, when a letter, addressed in a scrawling hand, and bearing the postmark of Hammond, Indiana, was delivered at the Carlson cottage. Its contents, written on a half sheet of note paper, were as follows:

Mr. Carlson—Dear Sir: My sister is low at present and my business calls me out of town. If you will please put the furniture in your cellar for a few days I will pay you for your trouble. I am sorry that I lost the key to the cottage door, but I will pay you for all trouble. My sister told me to paint the floor for her so that it would not be so hard to keep clean. I am now sorry I gave the front room one coat.F. W.

That afternoon, Charles Carlson went over to the cottage for the purpose of disposing of the furniture as requested in the letter. The front window next to the cellar was found to be open, and through this he secured an entrance. One glance at the inside filled him with alarm, and he went back to the house after his father and mother. The condition in which they found the place has already been described in the earlier portion of this chapter. Their first impulse was to notify the police, but after talking over the matter, they decided to allow the cottage to remain as it was, moving neither stick nor stone until "Williams"came for his furniture or an opportunity was afforded for renting the cottage to another tenant. This determination was adhered to until the finding of Dr. Cronin's body.

This was the story as told by Mrs. Carlson and supplemented by her husband, son and daughter-in-law. When, however, their memories were refreshed by the numerous questions which were propounded by the officers, and which served to bring back scenes and incidents that they had almost forgotten, many facts of essential importance were added to the initial narrative. Old man Carlson remembered that after the man had rented the cottage and received the keys, he walked across the prairie toward O'Sullivan's house. The iceman was standing near his buggy, and Carlson plainly heard "Williams" remark: "Well, the cottage is rented." Just before the second month's rent was due Carlson had gone to O'Sullivan and asked him if he knew the man.

"Yes," the iceman had responded, "I know one of the men. He is all right."

Again, upon receipt of the letter from Hammond, Carlson had taken it to O'Sullivan and asked him what he thought about it. His reply was that the cottage seemed to be an unlucky one, and that it would have to berented again. O'Sullivan had also intimated that he would be responsible for a month's rent if "Williams" failed to appear; thus holding out an inducement to the Carlsons not to disturb the place for the time being. The old man also remembered that on the night of May 4th he saw Williams standing on the front steps of the house for several minutes, after which he went indoors. This was about five o'clock. Two hours or so later he heard two men talking loudly in the front room of the cottage. He could not distinguish what was said, and the blinds were drawn so closely that nothing could be seen. He gave the matter no thought, and at eight o'clock—about the time that the physician must have reached the scene—himself and his family were abed. On the following morning, while prowling about his lot, he saw strange stains on the front door steps, which he thought were made by the breaking of a jar of preserves. In the soft mud in the sidewalk fronting the house were the footprints of men who had worn heavy shoes, and near the curb were fresh wagon tracks that seemed to lead to the southward. Charles Carlson also remembered that a few nights after May 4th he had noticed a man skulking about the cottage. It was extremely dark, but he could see that he was light-complexioned and wore a black slouch hat and an overcoat. Carlson asked him what hewanted, and he replied that he was out of work and wanted to find the nearest police station. The information was given him and he went away. Young Carlson also said that about the first of May he noticed that one of the slats of the front blinds had been cut out, so that any one approaching the house could be seen from the front room—the one in which the death-struggle had taken place.

To say that the authorities and the friends of the murdered man were elated by these developments is to put it mildly. It was next in order to ascertain where the furniture had been purchased, and by whom. The first question was practically answered by the trade-mark of A. H. Revell & Co. on the back of the dressing-case and wash-stand. The second seemed a more difficult one, as the firm in question sold tens of thousands of such articles of furniture every few months. Here, again, good fortune favored the investigation. It happened that in the establishment in question a careful and systematic record of all sales was kept, comprising a description of the goods sold, their price, the name and address of the purchaser, together with any attendant circumstances that might serve to make the record themore complete. On an examination of this record the fact was elicited that the furniture of the description found in the Carlson cottage had been purchased at the store on February 17th. The salesman was W. T. Hatfield, an old employe of the firm, and the purchaser a man who gave his name as J. B. Simonds. This individual Mr. Hatfield described as about twenty-five years of age, one hundred and fifty pounds in weight, complexion a cross between dark and fair, a rather heavy, reddish-brown moustache, high forehead, and thin drab hair. He wore a dark cut-away-coat, dark trousers, a brown, heavy over-coat, and a derby hat. Upon entering the store he said that he wanted to fix up a room or two very cheaply, with goods as cheap as they had in the house, as they were only for temporary use. He was taken up-stairs, and, after selecting what he wanted, asked to be shown a large trunk. This necessitated a trip down-stairs, and, after looking at several sizes, he chose one known to the trade as a "Becker 40 No. 2." When all his purchases had been completed the bill footed up in this order:

It was noticed as curious by Mr. Hatfield that the man could not tell how large his room was, but guessed that thirty-two yards would be plenty.

"Where shall I have the goods delivered?" asked the salesman when the bill had been made out.

"I don't know," replied Simonds. "You keep them here and I'll take a memorandum of them." This he did. "I will come back," he went on, "to-morrow or next day, and give you my address."

True to his word, the man put in an appearance at ten o'clock the following morning, greeting Salesman Hatfield with the remark: "Well, I will take those goods." The bill was presented, and Simonds, stepping to the cashier's desk, pulled out a big roll of bills of large denominations, tens and twenties predominating.

"Now I will give you the address," he added, as he pocketed the change. "You can send thosethings to J. B. Simonds, 117 South Clark street, rooms 12 and 15, and send a man to put the carpet down."

About noon of the same day the carpet-layer accompanied the furniture to the address that had been given. This building was directly opposite the ten-story Chicago Opera-House structure, in which the offices of both Dr. Cronin and Alexander Sullivan were located. There were two rooms bearing 12 as their number in the building. One room, the door of which was covered with Turkish characters, was on the second floor. This was not the room occupied by Simonds, and another flight of stairs brought the furniture men to a sort of lodging-house arrangement of rooms. No. 12 was a front room, and 15 adjoined it in the back. In the front room the carpet-layer found a short, rather stout man of dark complexion, and wearing a closely cropped black moustache, who told him to go ahead with his work. He had no noticeable accent in his speech, and seemed to be an American. He superintended the laying of the carpet, and talked a good deal in a friendly way. The carpet proved to be too long by several yards for the room, and the carpet man wanted to cut it off.

DR. CRONIN'S OFFICE IN CHICAGO OPERA HOUSE BUILDING.

"Oh, no," the other protested as he handed theworkman a cigar. "Turn it under. I'd much rather have it that way. You see, this is only temporary anyway. I may move at any time."

The man did as requested, and the packing trunk and a portion of the furniture was taken into the room. The remainder was unloaded into No. 15. Simonds, had called at the furniture house on the following day and exchanged the trunk-strap for a larger one.

After making this statement Hatfield accompanied the officers to the Carlson cottage. Here, as had been expected, he immediately declared that the furniture and carpets werefac similesof the articles he had sold to Simonds. The bloody trunk that had been found on the Lake View prairie corresponded also in every detail with the one that figured in his bill of goods.

The rooms that had been occupied by Simonds and his confederates looked almost direct into the offices of Alexander Sullivan across the street. Those of Dr. Cronin's, being in the rear of the opposite building, were not within sight, although the goings and comings of the physician on the street could be seen from the window of No. 12. Salesman Hatfield's disclosures had forged another link in the chain, and the authorities turned their attention to the renting of the rooms. The agentsof the building were Knight & Marshall, a leading real estate firm and of which Edward C. Throckmorton was cashier and renting agent. It was found that Simonds had called at 117 Clark street on February 19th, the same day that the furniture was picked out, and inquired what rooms could be had. The janitor showed him all the rooms on the upper floor. He asked several questions and then went over to the office of the agents. Here he first saw Throckmorton, to whom he expressed a wish to lease the flat he had looked at. He gave no references, but said that he was a stranger in the city and wanted the place for a brother who was coming from the East for treatment for his eyes. The cashier suggested that he take two rooms on the lower floor, but Simonds was not willing. The upper floor was preferable, he said, because it had no other tenants. Throckmorton turned the matter over to Mr. Marshall, who named the figure of $42 monthly as the rent of the flat. Simonds made no quibble about the price, signed the lease to April 30th, and paid the first month's rent. Nothing more was thought of the matter until March 20th, when Collector Herman Goldman went to the flat to obtain the next month's rent. Nobody responded to his knocking, but on peeping through a hole in the front door he saw the furniture and carpet within. When he went back twenty-four hours later every vestige of the furniture had been removed and not a trace of the mysterious J. B. Simonds was to be found.

DR. CRONIN'S MAIN OFFICE IN CHICAGO OPERA HOUSE BUILDING.

DR. CRONIN'S RECEPTION ROOM IN CHICAGO OPERA HOUSE BUILDING.

While these facts were being brought to light in one direction, information of the greatest value had been secured in another, and which confirmed, almost beyond question, the general belief that Dr. Cronin had been murdered in the Carlson cottage. It came from William Mertes, a milk dealer of reputation and good standing in the community, and who lived on Woodside avenue in Lake View. On the night of May 4th, somewhere between 8:30 and 9 o'clock, Mertes left his house to visit the grocery at the corner of Ashland avenue and Otto street, which was only a short block south of the cottage. He walked east on Addison avenue to Ashland, and then turned south on the east sidewalk. As he neared the Carlson cottage at Roscoe street a buggy containing two men rolled up to the edge of the ditch. One of the men, whom Mertes described as a tall and apparently athletic man, sprang from the buggy and ran up the front stairs of the cottage, the door of which was thrown open before he even knocked for admission. Scarcely had the door closed again when the sound of loud and angry voices within the cottage startled the milk dealer. Helooked searchingly at the man in the buggy, wondering what had brought him to that lonely neighborhood at such an hour of the night, but the stranger's face was shrouded by the brim of a soft hat, and Mertes was unable to tell whether he was stout or slender, or fair or dark. The fellow whipped his horse into a gallop, drove to Addison avenue and then turned in the direction of the lake.

Mertes thought at the time that a fight was in progress, but as he heard only words he paid but little attention.

MILKMAN MERTES.

"Were there any lights in the house?" he was asked.

"Yes, there was a light, a small one, in the front room of the first floor. I could see it through the blinds."

"Could you distinguish the loud words you heard?"

"No, I could not. I tried to, but as they were spoken in the house they did not reach me."

"Did you hear any sounds that would indicate that a scuffle was in progress?"

"No; I listened for them because I thought there was a fight."

"Did you hear any loud words before the man from the buggy entered?"

"No, I didn't; but I was a long way from the house then."

"Did you see the man's face?"

"He ran up the stairs in too much of a hurry for me to get a glimpse of him. He appeared to be in a terrible hurry."

"Did he speak to the man in the buggy before the latter drove away?"

"I think not."

"Do you remember whether he knocked for admission?"

"I don't believe he did. He had scarcely reached the landing when I heard the bolt of the door fly back and then it opened, and he went in."

"And you heard the loud words directly afterward?"

"Yes; just as soon as the door closed."

"How was the man dressed?"

"My impression is that he had on a long overcoat, which was of a brown color, but I wouldn't be sure of it."

"Did he have a box or parcel in his hand?"

"I am not sure. He went up-stairs so fast that I couldn't see much of him."

"Was he tall?"

"Yes; and I think quite straight and well built."

"What sort of a horse was attached to the buggy?"

"I think it was a light sorrel with a white face. I am sure about the white face."

"Was it a top buggy?"

"Yes."

"Did you notice the man in it?"

"Not very much, because he went away so fast."

"Did you see how he was dressed?"

"I could only see that he had on a slouch hat. I thought it was a little funny that they should be going up to the front door, because I had always noticed that the people who lived around there went in the back way."

Mertes had said nothing of this experience until he fell in with a party of friends who were discussing the discovery in the cottage. Then he added the startling incident of his night trip to the corner grocers, when he was probablythe only man besides the murderers who heard the physician's death struggles. The authorities arrived at the conclusion that the loud voices that had startled him were made by the murderers as they fell on their victim, and that the doctor had been attacked the instant that he entered the door, being given no chance to defend himself. Taken in connection with the blows on the body, there was good ground for the theory that he was first struck over the left eye with a billy or sand-bag, and then hacked about the head with a hatchet or ice-pick. The towel that was found about the head might have been used at the start, to stifle any out-cry, and then to strangle the victim when it became apparent that horrible butchery would have to be resorted to to complete the job as it was begun. At the same time it was acknowledged that this theory was hardly compatible with the broken furniture, the blood be-spattered walls, and the other apparent evidence in the room that the physician had made a terrible struggle for life.

There now remained but a single link to establish the connection between the furniture left in the cottage and that sold by Hatfield. The expressman who hauled the goods from the Clark street flat was still to be found. But therewere several hundred men in the city engaged in that line of business, and although the police and detectives worked like beavers, it looked for a while as though their labor would be thrown away. Success came at last, however, although it was nearly two week's before the much wanted man was run to earth. He proved to be a Swede named Hukon Mortensen, a simple, unsuspicious young fellow, not possessed of more than the average intelligence of men of his occupation. From him it was learned that one day in the latter part of March, while at his stand, at the corner of Chicago avenue and Market street, he was approached by a man who asked him his terms for hauling a load of furniture from 117 Clark street to the corner of Lincoln and Belmont avenues. He offered to do the job for $2, but the man was not willing to pay more than $1.50, and this he accepted. This man, whose description tallied exactly with that given by the Carlsons of "Frank Williams," was assisted by another man in carrying the furniture down-stairs. When the wagon had been loaded Mortensen was told to go out to Lincoln and Belmont avenues and wait, his customer saying that he would take a cable car. The expressman was first on the ground; but the man did not put in an appearance for over an hour, when, witha companion, he drove up in a buggy, explaining the delay by saying that the cable had broken down. After the pair had carried the furniture into the cottage, young Carlson, meanwhile looking on, they took the expressman to a tobacco store two blocks away, where, after securing change for a five dollar bill, he was paid the amount agreed upon. After this he drove back to the city. It was after eight o'clock, and consequently pitch dark when his wagon was unloaded. Three or four times during the next few days the same man passed the stand, and then he was not seen again in the neighborhood.

The plot, according to the surroundings, could now be outlined. Preparations for the "removal" of the unfortunate physician had been commenced as early as February, when the flat was hired and the furniture purchased. Apparently it was the original intention to lure him into the third story of the Clark street building, where isolated, and, as "Simonds" remarked, "with no tenants on the same floor," he could be summoned from his office on the other side of the street and speedily done to death. For some reason or other, however, possibly because a single outcry might have alarmed the people on the floor below, this idea was abandoned, and the lonely cottage was hired. For over six weeks theassassins must have plotted and planned the carrying-out of their murderous intentions. Then came the summons of the night of May 4th, the crime, the efforts to dispose of the body in the lake, its concealment in the catch-basin, the throwing away of the bloody trunk, the endeavor to efface the blood-stains in the cottage with paint, and finally the strenuous effort to continue its occupancy, in order that its condition might not be seen by other eyes. So far the authorities were satisfied with the results accomplished.

The opinion was now almost general that Iceman O'Sullivan knew more concerning the tragedy than he was willing to admit. No one was yet bold enough to accuse him of actual complicity in the crime, while at the same time it was apparent that his statements to the police, as well as to the friends of Dr. Cronin, were widely at variance with the discoveries that had been made. The peculiar nature of the contract he was said to have made with the physician, to attend any man in his employ who might meet with an accident, his denial of any acquaintance with the men who had rented the cottage, in the face of the fact that he had been seen in conversation with "Frank Williams," and hadguaranteed the payment of the rent by the latter, and numerous other circumstances, some more or less trivial, were sufficient to raise the question as to whether, even had he taken no actual part in the terrible crime, he, in legal phraseology was not "possessed of a guilty knowledge." Hence it was the police decided to place the iceman under surveillance. Thereafter his house, as well as his every movement, when out of doors, was watched both night and day, and any attempt to leave the city would have resulted in his immediate arrest.

THE WHITE HORSE AND BUGGY—DETECTIVE COUGHLIN HIRES IT FOR A "FRIEND"—THE TROUBLE IN THE STABLE—DINAN GOES TO SCHAACK—THE CAPTAIN'S PECULIAR MOVEMENTS—SCANLAN IDENTIFIES THE HORSE—THE DETECTIVE AND O'SULLIVAN ARE JAILED—THE GRAND JURY INDICTS THEM WITH WOODRUFF—FULL ON THE TRACK OF THE CONSPIRATORS.

"Who owned the rig in which Dr. Cronin was driven to the assassin's den?"

"Who hired the white horse and buggy—if it was hired—that Frank Scanlan saw standing outside of the Windsor Theatre building on that memorable May night?"

These were the questions to which the friends of the murdered physician now directed themselves. The body had been found; the cottage in which the crime had been committed—with all its mute but gory testimony—had been located. But even now the wheels of the mill of justice had scarce begun to revolve. Dr. Croninhad left his home alive; he had reached the cottage alive. Whose rig was it that took him to it?

The question that was uppermost in the minds of thousands of people was soon to be answered—answered, too, in a manner that furnished a still more startling episode to the already startling tragedy. For the man that hired the horse and vehicle that carried the Irish Nationalist to his doom was a trusted officer in the employ of the city of Chicago; a man who, from the day of the disappearance, had, enjoying the full confidence of his superiors, been apparently working with might and main to bring about a solution of the mystery. It was Daniel Coughlin, detective.

DANIEL COUGHLIN,DETECTIVE.

Coughlin was attached to the East Chicago Avenue Police Station, which at that time was under the direction of Captain Michael J. Schaack, who had gained an international reputation for his brilliant work in connection with the celebrated Anarchist cases. The station house was located within a few doors of the southwest corner of Clark Street and Chicago Avenue. Little more than half a block north, on the former street, was a livery stable keptby Patrick Dinan. Naturally enough, as a result of his close proximity to the station, Dinan knew about all the officers and they knew him. Moreover, if any of them wanted a rig at any time to take their family or friends for a drive, they almost invariably went to No. 260 North Clark street to get it. So far as Dinan was concerned, therefore, there was nothing remarkable in the fact when, early on the morning of the day that the physician disappeared, Coughlin called at the stable.

"I want you to keep a rig in readiness for a friend of mine to-night," he said, "and I don't want you to say a word about it. When he calls for it give it to him, and I'll be responsible for it."

"All right," was Dinan's response. "I will have one on hand." The liveryman said afterward that he did not pay much attention to the remark that he was to "keep still about it," from the fact that Coughlin was often in the habit of hiring cabs and rigs to do detective work. In fact, he did not pay any attention to it at all, as there was nothing out of the common in his manner or conversation.

LIVERYMAN DINAN'S STABLE WHERE THE WHITE HORSE AND BUGGY WERE HIRED.

THE WHITE HORSE AND BUGGY.

The detective's "friend" was on hand at the livery stable a few minutes after seven that evening. Seen under the dim gas-light; he was a man about thirty-five years old, of dark complexion, with a black mustache and a four weeks' growth of beard. He was rather undersized, and weighed in the neighborhood of 125 pounds. A small, soft felt hat, with the front pulled down well over his eyes, covered his head, and a seedy, faded gray or yellow overcoat was buttoned up close around him. A few moments before, Dinan's blacksmith had ordered a high-strung bay horse to be hitched up, and while this was being done, the two men strolled up the street to an adjacent cigar store. While they were absent, the stranger entered, and going tothe back of the stable, told the hostler that he had come for the rig that "Dan Coughlin had ordered for him." Dinan returned at this juncture, and in reply to a question, ordered his employe to hitch up the white horse. When the stranger saw the color of the animal, he objected violently. He did not want it, and expressed a preference for a carriage horse that stood in its stall. He was told that if the animal were put in single harness it would kill him. Next he wanted the horse that was being put into harness for the blacksmith. The latter was willing enough, in his good nature, to give way, but Dinan was stubborn. He knew, he said, how much the black horse had done that day, but he did not know how much was before the white one after it had gone out. Failing to get the white horse the man proceeded to find fault with the buggy. He wanted a better one, but was told that he would have to take it or nothing. At this he scowled. Then he wanted to know why the side-curtains had not been attached. By this time Dinan, who was in an independent mood, not attaching much importance to the fellow or caring for his trade, was on his mettle, and in a pointed manner he replied that he could not give any curtains, that he did not know where they were, and that it would take too long to look for them. It was dark anyway, he added,and nobody could see him, but if he wished to shield himself from view he could put up the top. Growling something that could not be understood, the stranger adopted the suggestion, and, getting into the vehicle, drove out into the street. He turned north on Clark Street, heading direct for the Windsor Theatre building. It was then about 8:15. The horse had not been out before that day, and as Dinan was anxious to see how it would act he went out into the street, two of his employes going with him. They watched it until it had crossed Chestnut Street, about a block and a half distant, when it was lost in the darkness. The horse, however, seemed to behave admirably. Dinan was absent when the same man brought back the rig between 9:15 and 9:30 the same evening. Napier Moreland, the hostler, was in the rear barn at the time, and the man, driving in the rig to the carriage-walk, hurried out of the door without stopping to find any one to care for it. Moreland barely caught sight of him as he turned the corner of the door. The horse was found to be extremely warm, as if it had been driven fast and a good distance. Its description at the time, as it will live in the history of the case, was as follows:

"A white horse, standing about fifteen and a half hands high, rather long limbed, long body, little, slim and long, rangy neck. Not a markby which he could be identified. Clean as a whistle, neither spavin-boned nor collar-boned nor ring-boned. Buggy three quarter-seat, Columbus, Ohio, manufacture; side bar rather low, not much higher than some phaetons; old, trimmed with blue cloth, and provided with a cotton whip."

The livery-man thought nothing further of the circumstance until early the following Monday morning, when the excitement over the disappearance of the physician had commenced to manifest itself. The description of the white horse and buggy which Frank Scanlan—and, as it subsequently proved, Mrs. Conklin—had seen driven up, and which carried the doctor away, arrested his attention, and recalling the event of Saturday night, he determined to go to Captain Schaack and acquaint him with the facts. At the same time he had little idea that it was his own white horse that had been mixed up in the affair. Only a coincidence, he reasoned, especially in view of to the fact that it was Detective Coughlin that had hired it; while yet at the same time, it might prove be the best policy to tell what he knew. In the meantime, several police officers in uniform had called at the stable to learn if a white horse hadbeen hired on the Saturday night, and the hostler, acting under instructions that they were never to tell who took out horses ordered by the Captain or his detectives, answered each inquiry in the negative. It was between nine and ten o'clock when Dinan went up to the station to see Captain Schaack. On the steps he met Coughlin.

"Hello!" said the detective. "Who are you looking for?"

"Captain Schaack," replied the liveryman.

"What for?" demanded Coughlin. "What are you so excited about?"

"Well," was the reply, "there have been so many inquiries made about the white horse that was out on Saturday night—the one that I let your friend have—that I want to tell him all about it."

Coughlin's face paled perceptibly. The muscles twitched, and he nervously chewed his mustache. For a few moments he stood deep in thought, and then, turning to Dinan, he said:

"Look here, there is no use making a fuss about this thing. You keep quiet about it. Me and Cronin have not been good friends, and it might get me into difficulty or trouble. Everybody knows he and I were enemies."

Although the livery-man appeared to acquiesce in the detective's suggestion, and went away for the time being, he was more than everdetermined in his mind to see the captain. He did not propose to "keep quiet about it." Accordingly, an hour later he went again to the station. He was told that the official was home at dinner, and he made a bee-line for the house. Schaack was there, and into his attentive ear Dinan poured his tale of the white horse, the buggy and the peculiar customer.

What possessed the doughty "burgomaster" (as Capt. Schaack was familiarly called by the residents of the North Division) to follow the course that he did at this juncture, passes all comprehension. On the witness-stand before the coroner's jury, some days later, he could only justify himself by the lame statement that, at the time, he did not believe that Cronin had been killed. He might also have admitted, and with truth, that he had placed absolute and implicit confidence in his subordinates, only—as had been the fate of many as good a man before him—to be deceived and betrayed. At any rate his treatment of the information, placed at his disposal by Dinan, was of such a character as to demonstrate so great a neglect of duty, both toward the chief of police and his subordinates and the public, that, when its full extent became known, he was, notwithstanding hisprevious record, first suspended from duty and subsequently dismissed from the force.

What Capt. Schaack should have done—what any other official of his own, or subordinate rank in the city would have done—was to have gone without unnecessary delay to the chief of police and acquainted him with the disclosures that the liveryman had made. Instead of this, however, upon returning to the station, he sent for Coughlin himself, the last man of all men, who should have been informed of what had transpired. When the detective responded, he was asked if Dinan's story was true, and replied that it was. Pressed for further particulars, he said that he had hired the rig for a man named Thomas Smith. Of this individual he knew very little, except that he had come to the station and introduced himself as a friend of Coughlin's brother, who lived in Hancock, Michigan. He had met this man Smith several times; and on the Saturday morning the visitor had asked him to procure him a horse and buggy for that evening, as he (Smith), not being known to the livery-men thereabouts, might experience some difficulty in securing one. This the detective protested, was the entire extent of his connection with the affair. He did not know what use the man had made of the rig, where he had gone, or what time he returned. Infact he had not set eyes on him since the day in question. Extraordinary as it may seem, Capt. Schaack accepted this story without question, and contented himself with ordering the detective to go out and find the man, and bring him in for examination. Coughlin promised to do so. Two days went by, and he failed to report. Schaack then sent for him again, and asked him if he had found his friend. Coughlin answered in the negative, and said that he did not know where to lay his hands on him, unless he happened to run across him in a saloon. This was not satisfactory.

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