For a full five minutes the great curator studied the face in silence. Turning it over and over, he now and again uttered a little cry of delight.
Florence, as she watched him, thought he could not have been more pleased had a long-lost son been returned to him.
“It is!” he murmured at last. “It is the blue god of the Negontisks.”
“See that!” exclaimed the sergeant, springing to his feet. “I told you he’d know. And that’s the end of that business. The whole gang of ’em was caught in Sioux City, Iowa, last night, but they didn’t have the blue god. They’ll be deported.”
“Will—will you give it back to them now?” faltered Lucile.
“Give it back?” he roared. “I’d say not! You don’t know what crimes have been committed in the name of the blue god. No! No! We’ll not give it back. If they must have one when they get to where they’re going they’ll have to find a new one.”
“Sergeant,” said Cole, “I’d like to speak with you, privately.”
“Oh! All right.”
The two adjourned to a corner, where for some time they conversed earnestly. The sergeant might be seen to shake his head emphatically from time to time.
At last they returned to the group.