“No, you’re wrong there,” said Blake; “the other times it was a man; there was plenty of signs of that, as we know, in the profession, though we never got hands on him; but this time it’s a woman.”
Wilson thought of the mysterious girl straight off. She was always in his mind now. But she failed him again. Blake continued:
“She’s a stoop-shouldered old woman with a covered basket on her arm, in a black veil, dressed in mourning. I saw her going aboard the ferry-boat yesterday. Lives in Illinois, I reckon; but I don’t care where she lives, I’m going to get her—she can make herself sure of that.”
“What makes you think she’s the thief?”
“Well, there ain’t any other, for one thing; and for another, some nigger draymen that happened to be driving along saw her coming out of or going into houses, and told me so—and it just happens that they was robbed houses, every time.”
It was granted that this was plenty good enough circumstantial evidence. A pensive silence followed, which lasted some moments, then Wilson said—
“There’s one good thing, anyway. She can’t either pawn or sell Count Luigi’s costly Indian dagger.”
“My!” said Tom, “is that gone?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that was a haul! But why can’t she pawn it or sell it?”