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certainly was a great chance," assented the reporter. "We had a man on the spot with the posse, and the presses were held for him that night. He turned it loose all over two pages. Come over to the office some time when you haven't anything to do, and I'll have the old files dug up for you."

      "I'd like it immensely!" said Gilmore. "Look here, why not to-night? I haven't a thing to do, and I'm interested in the psychology of the Western bad man. Fascinating study, I've always found it."

      Dacey's evening assignment kept him busy until after midnight, but when he looked through the door into the little private room where he had left the doctor, surrounded by dusty, volumes of the middle eighties, he was amazed to find the Great Gilmore still there, hat and coat off, and buried to the elbows in the files. A great stack of index cards lay in front of him, by the aid of which he had been able to trace the Kennedy gang from its first appearance in print to the sensational finish.

      As Dacey looked in at the door, Gilmore was making entries in a small leather notebook. The reporter opened his mouth to speak, changed his mind, and withdrew silently. By a visit to the filing-cabinet, he ascertained that every card on John Moran had been taken out of its place.

      When at length the doctor stood up and struck his dusty palms together, he had read every word that had been printed about Buckshot John and his pocket note-book bore a complete record of the history of the Bad Jake gang. He was fortified with names, dates, incidents, and a neatly tabulated list of stolen property, the sum total of which ran well into six figures.

      Gilmore was slightly surprised to find Dacey waiting for him in the city room.

      "Well, doc," said Jimmy innocently, "you've made a night of it, haven't you?"

      "I have been admirably entertained," said Gilmore simply. "Admirably! Wonderfully well written stories. Nothing like the old-time reporters, these days! You know; a man in my line of—research should be interested in life in all its phases. Human nature, Jimmy! Ah, there isn't a study in the world like it!"

      "And that's right, too," said the reporter.

      Dacey stood on the corner, waiting for his car, and watched the Great Gilmore swing down the street, twirling his cane.

      "Something doing here!" said the reporter to himself. "Something coming off, as sure as a gun! Now what is it? Guess I'll study a little human nature myself!"

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