He found the home in a flurry of excitement. Police headquarters had rung up and asked that a member of the household come at once to the detective bureau to identify if possible a bracelet that it was believed had been among the stolen articles and that had been recovered.
Lanagan, arriving just as the senior Robbins was leaving in his automobile, was invited to accompany him. He did so; but first he had asked and had had answered the one question he came to ask.
In the office of O’Rourke, night captain of detectives, they found O’Rourke, Harrigan and Thomas grouped around a woman, huddled down on a chair. Lanagan caught a low sob, a helpless, forlorn, frightened sob, that sent a curious sensation of nausea through him. He stepped quickly forward to gaze down upon the misery-racked form of the cripple, Jennie Ward.
“I don’t know anything! Oh, I don’t know anything!” she wailed. “I found it on the door step!”
O’Rourke had turned as they entered. He stepped to his own desk, holding the bracelet toward Robbins.
“That is my daughter’s bracelet, sir,” Robbins said. “It was my Christmas present to her.”
Harrigan, listening, nodded in satisfaction.
“I knew it,” he said. “I guess we had better throw the little gutter snipe in, cap; a little pressure now and she’s bound to squeal.”
“Oh, oh, oh!” Sobs were shuddering from the girl.
“Squeal! You damned clodhopper! Give her a bullet and kill her now if you are trying to! You don’t throw her in!”