"It was another one," panted Christopher. "His friend slipped it to him and he—"
The salesman paled. Breathlessly he dragged out the tray of rings and pounced upon one of them.
"My soul!" he faltered weakly. "You're right. It's a fake. There's no mark on it. Ring, Grant! Ring that bell for the detective. The 'phone—quick—and call headquarters! We'll put somebody on their track as fast as ever we can." Then, turning to Christopher, he shouted accusingly, "Why in the deuce didn't you sing out before they got away? And where were you, anyhow, that you saw the affair?"
While the other clerks at the counter gathered round Christopher, he related exactly what he had witnessed.
"You'd know the chaps again?"
"I'd know the big one—I'm sure I should, because of the scar on his cheek."
"Scar? I didn't notice it," murmured the unhappy salesman. "I was too busy listening to their blarney, I guess. They meant I should be, too—idiot that I was. I can't see why you didn't sing out, kid." The clerk, thoroughly demoralized, had apparently entirely forgotten that Christopher was the son of the senior partner.
"I was too surprised! It was all so quick, you see. It almost seemed as if it hadn't happened," repeated the boy wretchedly.
"Why blame the boy, Hollings, when you yourself hadn't the wit to be on your guard?" put in the man called Grant.
"That's so! That's so!" moaned the unfortunate fellow.