“Why, committed some crime. Maybe he’s sort of hiding out here. No one would think of looking for him in a movie theater, would they?”
“Maybe not, but if they went to the theater they’d be pretty certain to see him, wouldn’t they?”
“Huh! He’s probably disguised. I’ll bet that mustache of his is a fake one.”
“It didn’t look so,” Perry objected. “What sort of—of crime do you suppose he committed, Fudge?”
“Well, he’s pretty slick-looking. I wouldn’t be surprised if he turned out to be a safe-breaker. Maybe he’s looking for a chance to crack a safe here in Clearfield; sort of studying the lay of the land, you know, and seeing where there’s a good chance to get a lot of money. We might go over to the police station, Perry, and see if there’s a description of him there. I’ll bet you he’s wanted somewhere for something all right!”
“Oh, get out, Fudge! The fellow’s a dandy-looking chap. And even if he had done something and I knew it, I wouldn’t go and tell on him.”
“Well, I didn’t say I would, did I? B-b-but there’s no harm in finding out, is there?”
Whether Fudge’s watch was slow or whether, absorbed in their conversation, they consumed more time than they realized on the way, the City Hall clock proclaimed twenty-two minutes to five when they reached the Common and, to Fudge’s intense disgust, the theater was out. The ticket-seller had departed from his glass hutch between the two doors and the latter were closed. Fudge scowled his displeasure.
“He’s made his getaway,” he said, “but he can’t escape us long. The Hand of the Law——” He paused, his attention attracted by one of the colorful posters adorning the entrance. “Say, Perry, that’s where the Mexican tries to throw her off the cliff. Remember? I’d like to see that again. It’s a corker! Gee, why didn’t we think to come here this afternoon?”