"Hold his arms—there. You heard this, Friden?"
Mr. Friden was trembling slightly. He brushed past a man with a van Dyke beard and sat down on a leather stool. "Yes sir, I did. That is, I think I did. What shall we do with him?"
"I don't know, yet. Take him away, Lieutenant, for now. I want to think a bit. We'll talk to Mr. Greypoole later on."
Lieutenant Peterson pulled the smiling little man out into the street and pointed a gun at him.
Mr. Chitterwick blinked into the face of a small child.
"Man's insane, I guess," said Mr. Milton, pacing.
"Yes, but what about all this?" Mr. Goeblin looked horrified at the stationary people.
"I think I can tell you," Mr. Friden said. "Take a look, Captain."
The men crowded about a pamphlet which Mr. Friden had placed on the stool.
Toward the top of the pamphlet and in the center of the first page was a photograph, untinted and solemn; it depicted a white cherub delicately poised on a granite slab. Beneath the photograph, were the words: HAPPY GLADES.