“How smart she is,” supplied Mr. Gay proudly, “you’d have been more careful! Well, Miss Brooks, you’ve been pretty clever, but not quite clever enough. This is the end of your dangerous career.”
“I guess we can get out on bail!” she boasted.
“I guess you can’t! Not this time, young lady!”
The photographer and the police arrived at the same time; Mrs. Ferguson and her band of six had to submit to having their pictures taken and were allowed, under supervision, to pack a few necessary articles of clothing into their suitcases. Then, under the escort of four policemen and the assistant hotel detective, they rode downstairs to the waiting patrol car.
Mr. Gay and the hotel detective went on with their methodical search.
“Suppose we stop and eat,” suggested the latter. “We can lock up these rooms.”
“O.K.,” agreed Mr. Gay.
A knock sounded at the door.
“I’m Jones—the man who lost the album,” announced the visitor. “Did you fellows really get it?” His question held all the eagerness of the collector.
“This it?” queried the hotel detective, holding the worn blue book up to view.