“Can’t be any mistake,” he mumbled to himself, as he settled back in his chair. “It’s it, that’s all. Wouldn’t I like to have been there! All right,” he urged, “go on.”
Lucile finished her story.
“And is that all?” he repeated.
“All except something that happened the night Florence was caught in the old museum and didn’t get home,” said Lucile, “but what happened wasn’t much. You see, we went out to search for her, and a boy named Mark Pence, who lives in a boat here too, joined us. We couldn’t rouse anyone at the old scow where the Chinamen live, so he went in. He didn’t find anyone, but when he came out he said it was such a queer sort of place. He said there was a winding stairway in it twenty feet high. But I guess he doesn’t know much about winding stairways, because the scow is only ten feet high altogether. So the stairs couldn’t be twenty feet deep, could they?”
The officer, who had again half risen from his chair, settled back.
“No,” he said, “no, of course they couldn’t.”
But Florence, who had been studying his face, thought he attached far greater importance to this last incident than his words would seem to indicate.
“Well, if that’s all,” he said rising, “I’ll be going. You’ve shed a lot of light upon a very mysterious subject; one which has been bothering the whole police force. I’m from the 63d street station. If anything further happens, let me know at once, will you? Call for Sergeant Malloney. And if ever you need any protection by day or night, the station’s at your service. Good day and thank you.”
“Now what do you think of that?” said Florence as the officer’s broad back disappeared beyond the black bulk of a tug in dry dock.
“I—I don’t know what to think,” said Lucile. “One thing I’m awfully sure of, though, and that is that living on a boat is more exciting than one would imagine before trying it.