“Kidnappin’ an’ torture!” said one of the police, standing the captured offender on his feet. “You’ll get yours, Mike.”
“It was Blackie’s idea,” grumbled the man.
“And where’s Blackie?”
The man shrugged.
“Left you to hold the bag. That’s him. Anyway, now we got it on him, we’ll mop him up! Blamed if we don’t! Tim, untie that man.” He nodded toward the little Frenchman.
“Now then,” the police sergeant commanded, “tell us why you let ’em take you in.”
“They—they told me they would take me to a person known as Petite Jeanne.”
“Pet—Petite Jeanne!” Florence could have shouted for joy. “And have you money for her, a great deal of money?”
“No, Miss.” The little man stared at her.
Florence wilted. Her pet dream had proven only an illusion. “At any rate,” she managed to say after a time, “when the police are through with you I’ll take you to her lodgings. I am her friend and pal.”