Page:Arthur Stringer--The House of Intrigue.djvu/85

Rh of liars, growing bolder with the thought of a getaway.

The singed cat turned to me.

"Do you know this man?" he inquired.

I shook my head.

"But do you know that he's been here for the last forty minutes?"

"What difference does it make?" I stalled, pretending the whole situation was a mystery to me.

"Because this man has a police record as a pick-pocket, and there's just been a job a couple of blocks up the avenue that looks like his work."

"What was stolen?"

"A bank-runner's wallet full of checks and notes," was the reply.

"And I'd be roosting here on a park bench, wouldn't I," broke in Pinky, "if I was heeled with a haul like that!"

"How do I know you're not heeled with it?" demanded the officer.

"Satisfy yourself, my friend, satisfy yourself," luxuriously announced the man on the bench. The detective dropped down on the seat beside him. I could see him pass his hands over the other man's body, like a mesmerist. It was a startlingly adroit