Florence turned to find herself looking into the face of a young policeman.
She flashed a glance at Meg. That one glance convinced her that Meg did not know him.
“Where—where’s Tim?” Meg faltered.
“Tim who?”
“Tim McCarty. This is his beat.”
“’T’aint now. It’s mine. He’s been transferred. What’s more,” he paused to lay a gloved hand on the travelling bag, “since this is my beat, part of my job’s findin’ out what comes off them ships at night. What y’ got in that bag?”
“I—I don’t know,” Florence said the words impulsively, and regretted them the instant they were said.
“Don’t know—” he ceased speaking to stare at her. “Say, sister, you’re good! Don’t know what you’ve got in that bag! In that case all I can do is take you to the station for questioning.
“No,” he said in a kindlier tone after a moment’s thought, “maybe if you’ll unlock it and let me see what’s inside I’ll let you go.”
Open it and let him see what was inside? Florence’s head was in a whirl. Open it? What if her fears proved true? What if it contained stolen goods? Why, then she would see the first light of Christmas morning behind prison bars. Was ever anyone in such a mess? Did ever a girl pay so dearly for her own Christmas surprise?