n; in it was a man that
looked like Stuart. Know who I mean?"

"Jove! You bet I do! Well?"

"He was togged out in an old brown ulster, worn trousers, and boots that
were all splashed with plaster or paint, and he had white hair, a white
beard, a slouch hat, and a bag. It may not be he at all, you know; but
his hands--say--hello--hello--Davis--hello--the darn operator's cut me
off."

"Maybe not. More likely Davis hung up the 'phone."

"But I wasn't through," declared the boy indignantly.

"He'd got all he wanted, I imagine, and had to get to work."

"Perhaps so." Christopher, however, was not satisfied.

Moreover, now that the excitement of the incident was over and he began
to look back on what he had done, it seemed madness. What right had he
to turn the whole police force of the city of New York loose on a poor
old working man, solely because his hands happened to be white! It was
audacious. A pretty kind of a fool he'd feel if he had started them off
on a false scent! They would not thank him. He had fumbled the affair
from the beginning, and doubtless was continuing to fumble it.

All the elation died in his face, and noticing this, McPhearson, who
loitered in the meantime at the door of the telephone booth, remarked:

"What's the trouble, son?"

"If I was only _sure_ it was Stuart."

"That's what I was trying to tell you, laddie, when you ran pell-mell in
here to call the police. You ought to have made sure before you gave the
information."

"But how could I?" retorted Christopher irritably. "I couldn't go up to
the man and ask him politely whether he was the burglar who took a
diamond ring from my father's shop, could I?"

The absurdity of the question brought back his good humor.

"No. I grant that," McPhearson agreed. "Still you might have proceeded
with a grain less speed. I always think an action can bear considering."

"But all actions can't be considered," was the crisp reply. Again an
edge of sharpness had crept into the lad's voice.

"Well, well. Maybe no harm's done," the clockmaker hastened to say
soothingly. "No doubt the police chase about on a hundred false clews a
day. Their information can't always be right."

"You feel like a fool, though, if you give them the wrong clew."

"Yes, you do."

The promptness of the concession was anything but comforting. Obviously
McPhearson felt that in the present instance, at least, the tip offered
had been both valueless and absurd. A straine