“What?” Ken prompted.
Sandy grinned slightly. “I thought of something that supports your crazy theory. I was going to say it would explain why the man ‘forgot’ his change. He just wasn’t interested in waiting around for it when he’d managed to do what he came for.”
Ken solemnly shook his hand. “Congratulations. That clinches it.”
“Now wait a minute,” Sandy said hastily. “It doesn’t do any such thing. We still haven’t any idea why somebody should have wanted the box in the first place.”
“I know. I know,” Ken told him. “You’ve explained that once. If it’s a stolen art treasure, Dad wouldn’t have been able to bring it into the country. And if it isn’t really valuable....” his voice trailed off.
“Exactly,” Sandy said. “I must have been wrong about the weight that first night.” His voice sounded almost pleading.
Ken ignored him. “Sam might be able to tell us if this is the box he worked on,” he said suddenly. “Let’s check with him tomorrow.” He straightened up, as if relieved at having reached a decision. “And now let’s finish up here, before Bert comes down to see if we’re scheming up some new trick for his downfall.”
They were in Sam Morris’s store by nine the next morning, the iron box under Sandy’s arm. Mom had gone off right after breakfast to see her sister, so they had been able to borrow her present without arousing her suspicion.
“Broken again?” Sam Morris asked, as Sandy unwrapped the package.
“No. It works fine, Sam. We just need your help in settling an argument. Would you look at this thing carefully and tell us if it’s the one you repaired?”