Part 15 (2/2)
Poor Christopher! His heart beat until it seemed as if the stranger opposite must hear its throbbing and take warning. If only it were possible to alight from the bus without exciting attention, maybe he and McPhearson could get an officer. He sadly wanted somebody's help and advice. The adventure was one he felt to be too big for him to handle alone.
Nevertheless were he even to suggest leaving the car he knew his companion would not only be surprised but would instantly voice 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 b.u.mping of this infernal vehicle. You'll be all right when you get outside.”
Without attracting anything more than pa.s.sing 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, admonis.h.i.+ng the operator to make haste.
A second later a reply came singing over the wire.
”Is Mr. Corrigan, the inspector, there?”
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