"Stop him! He snatched my pocketbook!"
It was a bent little old woman in a queer rusty bonnet over a brown wig. She wore glasses so thick, that her eyes were like little points far behind them. She redoubled her cries.
"He's a thief! He stole my pocketbook!"
Jack crimsoned with anger and mortification. He was helpless. To knock the old woman out of the way would only have been to convict himself of her preposterous charge. In five seconds a great crowd was pushing and shoving around them.
"All my money! All my money!" wailed the old woman, and actually two tears rolled down her withered cheeks. It was the perfection of acting.
A loud murmur of sympathy went up from the crowd, and violent threats were made in Jack's face. He ground his teeth in impotent rage. Anything he might have said would only have made matters worse. He retained the presence of mind to keep his mouth shut.
"Hold him!" cried the old woman. "I'll get a policeman!"
Half a dozen pairs of hands seized Jack roughly. The old woman threaded her way with surprising celerity through the crowd.
Jack permitted himself to say: "You'll never see her again. It's a frame-up to let her and her partner make a getaway."
"Shut up, you thief!" they roared. "Shut up, or we'll smash your hat over your eyes." Those behind who had little idea of what was going on roared out of sympathy.