"It's Randolph's plate," responded the Burglar complacently. "I don't know how much it's worth, but it must be several thousands, on dead weight."
"What are you doing with it?"
"What am I doing with it?" repeated the Burglar. He was about to look up when the match burned his finger and he dropped it. "That's a silly question."
"But how came it in your possession?" the Girl insisted.
"I acquired it by the simple act of—of dropping it into a bag and bringing it along. That and you in the same evening——" He stretched out a hand toward her, but she was not there. He chuckled a little as he turned and picked up eleven plates, one by one, and replaced them in the bag.
"Nine—ten—eleven," he counted. "What luck did you have?"
"Dick Herbert, explain to me, please, what you are doing with that gold plate?" There was an imperative command in the voice.
The Burglar paused and rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
"Oh, I'm taking it to have it fixed!" he responded lightly.
"Fixed? Taking it this way at this time of the night?"