“That’s my album!” she exclaimed. “If you don’t believe it, look at the name in the front.” Triumphantly she turned to the first page and displayed the inscription:
Pauline Brooks,
Christmas, 1931.
From Aunt Ethel.
Detective Gay laughed scornfully.
“You can’t fool us that easily, Miss Brooks,” he said. “Examine the ink in the handwriting for yourself! It’s fresh.... You can’t pass that off for three years old.”
Pauline looked calmly into her accuser’s eyes.
“Maybe it is,” she retorted. “But I don’t have to write my name in my books the minute I get them, do I?”
“Hand it over!” commanded the hotel detective, while Mr. Gay continued his search of the Christmas boxes. At the bottom of the pile he found the gold-mesh handbag with two pearl rings inside it. But he did not discover any of the lost money.
“Call the police,” ordered the hotel detective, turning to his assistant. “Gay and I will make a thorough search of this room. And on your way downstairs get hold of Mr. Jones, in room 710. He can come up here and identify his stamp album.”