oice aloud
his consternation, and then, of course, the man behind the newspaper
would hear.

Still, something must be done. The bus was whizzing on down the avenue,
and at any moment his prey might take flight.

A mad resolve formed itself in his mind.

"I think we'll have to get out," he said suddenly. "I don't feel well."

McPhearson wheeled on him, amazed.

"What's the matter?"

"My--my--breakfast, I guess. Can you stop the car?"

"Do you mean you want to get out right here?"

"Yes. I'm dizzy. If I can get some air--"

"Not going to faint away, are you?" queried the Scotchman in
consternation.

"I--no--I--guess not."

The kind old clockmaker slipped an arm about his shoulders.

"We'll get out at the next stop, sonny. Too bad you feel mean. It's
probably the lurching and bumping of this infernal vehicle. You'll be
all right when you get outside."

Without attracting anything more than passing notice, they found
themselves in the street and saw the bus disappear down the avenue.

"Feel better?" interrogated McPhearson, anxiously.

"I'm all right. There's not a thing the matter with me. The trouble is
that the man opposite us was the chap who pinched that ring from
Hollings."

"Are you sure?"

"Pretty sure. At any rate, it's worth tipping off headquarters. Where's
there a telephone?"

"There's a drug store just across the street, Christopher. But hold on!
What do you mean to do?"

The Scotchman's mind was at best a slow-moving machine, and now it
appeared to be too stunned to move at all. Sensing that explanation and
argument would delay him, Christopher dashed ahead, the clockmaker
panting at his heels.

Fortunately he knew the number, for he had talked with the inspector
before. Fortunately, too, he had a nickel in his pocket. Therefore he
called headquarters, admonishing the operator to make haste.

A second later a reply came singing over the wire.

"Is Mr. Corrigan, the inspector, there?"

"Just gone out."

"Is Davis, his assistant, in?"

"Yes, sir."

"Rush him here. I want to speak to him."

"Who shall I--"

"No matter who. Get him here quick."

There must have been something in the tone that carried a command, for
almost immediately a weak, panting voice answered:

"This--is--Davis, sir."

"I'm Christopher Burton, the son of--"

"Yes, sir, I get it."

"I've left at the corner of Fifth Avenue and West Fifty-seventh Street a
bus numbered 1079 that's on its way down tow