As Markle’s head drooped Bob drew the handcuffs from his bedraggled reticule and snapped them on his wrists. With his kerchief, no longer snowy, he bound his ankles together.
“There, poor fellow, I fancy you would have been happier if I had not let up when I did but had squeezed all the breath out of you,” Bob panted.
The chug of the rejuvenated Ford was now heard and, after it, the rumble of the truck. The Ford was breaking the speed limits in its endeavor to come up with the Indian and its side car. Josie was wild with impatience. It was all she could do to keep from slapping the stupid detective who had let their quarry escape.
“It is what I get for trusting them,” she kept on saying to herself. “I could have snapped the handcuffs on myself without using any force. And now, poor Bob Dulaney may be killed or almost worse than killed, Markle escaping and no scoop after all to speak of.”
The fight that had seemed to Bob Dulaney to last hours had in reality only taken a few minutes, only long enough for the gasoline to be put in the tank and the car to be backed out of the miry road, turned around and started.
They found Bob sitting on the roadside by his captive burglar. He was still in the bombazine gown but his wig and bonnet were gone. He had found the pockets of his trousers under his skirts and had produced therefrom cigarettes and matches and was contentedly smoking.
“Hurrah for Auntie!” cried Josie when she took in the situation as the car slowed down. Tears of joy were in her eyes but a little lump of sympathy in her throat. They lifted Markle into the truck. Life was slowly coming back to him. He opened his eyes for a moment and then closed them wearily. He murmured something but only Josie caught the meaning of his whisper:
“Pet, poor little Pet!”
It was an easy matter to round up the gang of thieves when once the master mind was not allowed to direct them. Markle was confined in jail, there to await his trial. The holder of checks Nos. 82-6573 and 82-6574 when he applied at the New York baggage room was followed and trapped and with him many others.
The books of Simpkins & Markle were inspected and, through them, the furnished apartments were located and the stolen goods restored to their owners. Poor Simpkins had learned a lesson not to shut his eyes and get rich too quick. He was let off—having convinced the jury that he was not dishonest—but merely stupid.