“But you say—”
“I am only its rightful owner,” he explained. “Had Queen Alma’s bracelet been in my possession it never would have been lost and so found by the so—gracious Kenway. Indeed, no!”
“Then, what have you come here for?” cried Agnes, in some desperation. “I cannot give the bracelet to anybody but the one who lost it—”
“You say here the owner!” cried the man, beginning again the woodpecker tapping on the paper.
“But how do I know you own it?” she gasped.
“Show it me. In one moment’s time can I tell—at the one glance,” was the answer of assurance. “Oh, yes, yes, yes!”
These “yeses” were accompanied by the emphatic tapping on the paper. Agnes wondered that the Post at that spot was not quite worn through.
Perhaps it was fortunate that at this moment Neale O’Neil came in. That he came direct from the garage and apparently from a struggle with oily machinery, both his hands and face betrayed.
“Hey!” he exploded. “If we are going to take Mr. Pinkney out on a cross-country chase after that missing pirate this afternoon, we’ve got to get a hustle on. You going to be ready, Aggie? Mr. Pinkney gets home at a quarter to one.”
“Oh, Neale!” cried Agnes, turning eagerly to greet the boy. “Talk to this man—do! I don’t know what to say to him.”