"Let's have a squint at it."
The stone was handed to him. The detective stared at it carefully, holding it on his palm and rocking it gently under the desk light. Crimson darts of flame answered to this treatment. He pushed back his hat.
"Well, you boobs!" he drawled.
"What's the matter?"
"Matter? Why, this is a ruby! A whale of a ruby, an' pigeon blood at that! I didn't work in th' appraiser's office for nothing. But for a broken point—kids probably tried to crack it—it would stack up somewhere between three and four thousand dollars!"
The sergeant and the policemen barked simultaneously: "What?"
"A pigeon blood. Where was it you found it?"
"Holy Moses! On Eightieth."
"Any chance of finding that bunch of kids?"
"Not a chance, not a chance! If I got the hull district here there wouldn't be nothin' doin'. The kids'd be too scared t' remember anything. A pigeon-blood ruby, an' I wasn't gonna pick it up at first!"
"Lock it up, sergeant," ordered the detective. "I'll pass the word to headquarters. Too big for a ring. Probably fallen from a pin. But there'll be a holler in a few hours. Lost or stolen, there'll be some big noise. You two boobs!"
