The crouching boy was about to open the second purse, the hunchback making no protest, when to the girls there came cause for fresh anxiety. From the far side of the enclosure there came the rattle of chains.
“Someone else,” Florence whispered, “and at this hour of the night. But they cannot harm us,” came as an after-thought. “The chain is fastened on the inside.” She was thankful for this, but not for long.
“But how did these get in?” Petite Jeanne pointed to the crouching pair within.
“Let’s get out!” Jeanne pleaded. “This is work for an officer. We can send one.”
“Someone is at the gate,” Florence reminded her.
Then there happened that which for the moment held them glued to the spot. Having thrust a hand into the second purse, a small one, well worn, the crouching boy drew forth an object that plainly puzzled him. He held it close to the light. As he did so, Florence gave vent to an involuntary gasp.
“The cameo! The lost cameo!” she exclaimed half aloud. “It must belong to our little old lady of the merry-mad throng.”
At the same instant there came from behind her a man’s gruff voice in angry words:
“Here, you! What you doing? Why do you lock the gate? Thought you’d keep me out, eh?
“But I fooled you!” the voice continued. “I scaled the palisades.”