Orme fingered the purse. He would have to get rid of it, but he dared not to drop it to the floor, and if he thrust it through the grating and let it fall into the elevator well, someone would be almost certain to detect the action. There was only a moment left before the car would stop. He looked down at Alcatrante, who was close in front of him. Then his face relaxed and in spite of the gravity of his situation he smiled; for he had found a solution. Promptly he acted upon it.
The car halted just below the ceiling of the first floor. “What’s the matter with you?” called a voice—the voice of the starter.
“Man robbed,” said the elevator-boy.
“Bring the car down.”
“No!” shouted Alcatrante. “The thief is in the car. He must not escape.”
“I won’t let him out. Bring the car down.”
The boy let the car descend to the floor level. The starter placed himself against the gate. “Now then, who was robbed?” he demanded.
Alcatrante crowded forward. “It was I. My purse is gone. I had it just before I got in.”
“Oh, it was you, was it?” The starter remembered the trouble Alcatrante had made a few minutes before. “Sure you didn’t drop it?”
“I am certain that I did not.”