“It’s all right, sir,” he said, in a husky, confidential tone, “she’s the right party. We took her after the first act at the Green Light Theatre, on a wire from the Chief of Police of Chicago. It’s only a square or two to the station. Her rig’s pretty bad, but she refused to change clothes—or rather,” added the officer, with a smile, “to put on some. I thought I’d explain matters to you, so you would n’t think she was being imposed upon.”
“What is the charge?” asked Lorison.
“Grand larceny. Diamonds. Her husband is a jeweller in Chicago. She cleaned his showcase of the sparklers, and skipped with a comic opera troupe.”
The policeman, perceiving that the interest of the entire group of spectators was centred upon himself and Lorison—their conference being regarded as a possible new complication—was fain to prolong the situa-
