"You can't pinch that girl," he said with all the authority of a precinct captain.
"I've got her with the goods on—and you can do your talking with the cop that's coming across the street!" announced that sheep-nosed sleuth.
Bud talked with the cop that came across the street. He talked low and long, and called over the flyman himself, and continued that talk inside the store. Then he pulled out a roll of bills the size of a baby's arm, paid for the muff, and handed it over to me with a bow that made me think of John Barrymore in the movies. Then he led me out and signaled for a taxi.
"I s'pose you want to go home?" he said, as we swung off down the crowded avenue.
"I didn't steal that muff," was all the answer I gave to that question of his.
"Of course you didn't," he said, as solemn as a judge. But I knew he didn't believe me.
"Myrtle Menchen stole that muff," I persisted, "and handed it on to me to save her own neck."
"Don't you want to get back to your folks?" Bud gently inquired.
I told him I had no folks.
"Well, back to your home?"
"My home's been in a Greenwich Village room-
