“Positive.”
“But perfume!”
“For his best girl. Can’t you see?” Her tone showed impatience. “It’s in his left hand coat pocket.”
“Oh! All right.”
The detective stepped up to the man leaning on the counter. “Sorry,” he half apologized, “but we can’t have this sort of thing!” He deftly extracted a vial of rare perfume from the man’s pocket.
Turning his head about as if he had not heard aright and staring at the bottle of perfume, the man stammered:
“Do—do you think I’d take that stuff?”
“Of course you would!” Joyce Mills broke in almost fiercely. “You’d take anything. See here, you!” She fixed her burning black eyes upon him. “Do you remember Newton Mills, the New York City detective?”
The man shrank back.
“Well, I’m his daughter! And he’s here in this city. Now, tell this gentleman again that you wouldn’t steal perfume.”