"Now then, be spry," said Miss Van Snoop. "Oh, you needn't worry! I've got my credentials right here," and she dived into another pocket.
"But do you know—can you be sure," said the inspector, "that this is the man who shot the Detroit bank manager?"
"Great heavens! Didn't I see him shoot Will Stevens with my own eyes! And didn't I take service with the police to hunt him out?"
The girl stamped her foot, and the inspector left. For two, three, four minutes, she stood listening intently. Then a muffled shout reached her ears. Two minutes later the inspector returned.
"I think you're right," he said. "We have found enough evidence on him to identify him. But why didn't you give him in charge before to the police?"
"I wanted to arrest him myself," said Miss Van Snoop, "and I have. Oh, Will! Will!"
Miss Van Snoop sank into a cane-bottomed chair, laid her head upon the table, and cried. She had earned the luxury of hysterics. In half an hour she left the station, and, proceeding to a post-office, cabled her resignation to the head of the detective force in New York.