Then the teamster rang off, after giving his name. The real estate man came in a hurry, in a runabout. His wife, pallid and hollow-cheeked, rode in the car with him. To Mr. Macey the teamster pointed out the barely visible bit of black fluttering a hundred and sixty feet above the pavement.
"Now how about the reward, Mr. Macey?" demanded the teamster.
"That will be paid you, if you return the scarf to Mrs. Macey," replied the real estate man dryly.
The teamster's jaw dropped. For the uppermost eighteen feet of the spire consisted of a stout flagpole. Below this was the sloping slate roof of the top of the steeple proper. Only a monkey or a "steeplejack" could get up there, and on a day like this, with a half gale still blowing, a steeplejack might be pardoned for declining the task.
Swiftly the news spread, and a great crowd collected. Dave Darrin heard of it right after breakfast, and hurried to get Dick Prescott. Together the chums joined the crowd.
"You'll have to get a steeplejack for the job, Mr. Macey," the chums heard one man advise the real estate operator.
Only one was known. His home was some forty miles away. Mr. Macey tried patiently to get the man over the long distance telephone. Some member of the man's family answered for him. The expert was away, and would not be home, or available, for three days to come at least.
"Never mind, Macey," laughed the friend, consolingly. "It'll wait. No one in Gridley will take the scarf. It's safe up there."
"Huh! Is it, though?" snorted the real estate man. "At any minute the strong wind may unwind it and send it whirling off over the town. Or the gale may tear it to pieces, scattering the diamonds over a whole block, and not one in ten of the stones would ever be found."
Mrs. Macey sat in the runabout, a picture of mute misery.