“Holy Saint Patrick!” Patsy hardly knew whether to be amused or angry. With the actual coming of the tinker, and the laying of her fears, her mind seemed strangely limp and inadequate. Her lips quivered even as they smiled. “Maybe I had best go back to my bier; you couldn’t arrest a dead Capulet.”
But George Travis swept her aside; he saw nothing amusing in the situation. “What do you mean by insulting Miss O’Connell and myself by such a performance? Why should she be under arrest—for being one of the best Shakespearean actresses we’ve had in this country for many a long, barren year?”
“No! For stealing two thousand dollars’ worth of diamonds from a guest in this hotel the night she palmed herself off as Miss St. Regis!” The manager of the Inn bit off his words as if he thoroughly enjoyed their flavor.
“But she never was here,” shouted Travis.
“Yes, I was,” contradicted Patsy.
“And she sneaked off in the morning with the jewels,” growled the manager.
“And I trailed over the country for four days, trying to find the girl in a brown suit that he’d described—said she was on her way to Arden. I’d give a doggoned big cigar to know where you was all that time.” And there was something akin to admiration in the sheriff’s expression.
But Patsy did not see. She was looking hard at the tinker, with an odd little smile pulling at the corners of her mouth.
The tinker smiled back, while he reached deep into his trousers pocket and brought out a small package which he presented to the sheriff. “Are those what you are looking for?”