"My father is never unjust," Christopher put in stoutly.
"Your father? I beg your pardon, Mr. Christopher. I'd forgotten you were here, sir. No, your father always does the square thing," Hollings hastened to declare. "But he'll not understand. He'll think I should have been more careful! And so I had—I won't deny it. But my wife and children—my God!"
"Come, come, Hollings," interrupted a newcomer, whom the group greeted as Mr. Rhinehart. "There's no good crying over spilled milk. We may get the ring back again, you know."
"Oh, do you think so?"
"There is a good chance of it. I have telephoned and headquarters has its nets set already. The pawnshops are watched and so are the roads out of the city. The police, too, have their orders. Any minute we expect the inspector to talk with you and this young gentleman here."
"With me?" Christopher exclaimed with a start.
"Surely! You're the hero of this adventure, son."
"Not much of a hero, I'm afraid."
"Well, you're the one who escaped being the hero, then," laughed Mr. Rhinehart. "At least, you know more of the affair than does anybody else."
"But I'd be scared to death of the inspector," faltered the boy.