She stared at him with widened eyes.
"What's the man ravin' about?" she asked of the circumambient taxi-hood.
"Eight Lambert counterfeit plates sewn up in a chamois," explained Kestner.
"Not in my vanity-bag!" averred Sadie.
"But in this taxi," insisted Kestner.
"Search me!" protested Sadie.
"That's what I'll have to do," intimated Kestner. He slipped a hand into the muff lying on her knees, and found it empty.
"Say, Mister Slooth, haven't you got your numbers mixed?" asked the pitying Sadie.
"It's no use, Sadie. I know. And this is only wasting time and words. I want those eight plates!"
"Then you're go in' to do some slick stage-conjurin'!"
"All right, but I'll get them!"
"I know a plate when I see it, an' I ain't handled one since meal-time!"
"Sadie, we're wasting time. I know what I'm after, and I know that you've got it. Do I get it now, or do we have to go to Bowling Green and see Captain Henry and waste a nice morning in the federal offices?"
"But I tell you I ain't got any plates!"
"And you didn't leave Maura Lambert's hotel-room ten minutes ago?" demanded Kestner.
"Rave away," said the resigned Sadie. But she stirred a little uneasily.
"Sadie, I don't want to spoil your chances about brushing cigar-ashes off anybody's vest-front, but un-
