Meanwhile the distracted widow had dashed from the room, screaming, “Police! Police!”
Deprived of her deadly weapon, the gypsy woman did what harm she could with tooth and nail. This lasted just long enough for Florence to receive two ugly scratches down her right cheek. Then the dark-faced one found herself lying flat upon her back with one hundred and sixty pounds of Florence seated on her chest.
“Now—now rest easy,” Florence breathed, “un—until the police come.”
“I didn’t take it!” the woman panted. “I didn’t take the money. I—I’ll give it back. Let me up. I’ll get it back for you. I—”
At that moment there was a stir at the door and there stood Officer Patrick Moriarity.
“Oh! So it’s you!” He grinned at Florence. “They told me someone was being killed. But if it’s you doin’ the killin’, it’s O. K. You wouldn’t kill nobody that didn’t need killin’.”
Patrick’s young sisters had attended Florence’s playground classes in the good days that were gone. More often than was really necessary, Patrick had looked in to see how they were getting on.
Now, with a grin, he said, “I’ll just be toddlin’ along.”
“You’ll not!” said Florence in sudden fright. “This woman stole four hundred dollars. You’ve got to do something about it.”
“Only four hundred?” Patrick whistled through his teeth. “Why bother her?