Nevertheless Christopher continued to regard him attentively, studying the white hand with its long, slender fingers. It was a very clean hand for such a poorly dressed individual to boast. It did not look at all in keeping with the clumsy boots, the frayed trousers, the worn ulster, the battered satchel. It did not appear ever to have done a stroke of work in its life. Suppose the hand was genuine, and the rest only a disguise? Suppose in reality this was Stuart, the criminal for whom both the Chicago and New York police were searching? Oh, it wasn't likely--it could not be likely. Why should a boy of his age hope to track down a thief when agencies such as these had failed? It was preposterous. Yet, notwithstanding the argument, the doubt would persist. What if, after all, this was Stuart? Yet if it were, what should he do? If he began to whisper his suspicious to McPhearson, the thief might overhear and, put on his guard, leave the vehicle; and should he call the conductor to his aid, the man would in all probability be unwilling to believe such a tale and refuse to act. Moreover, perhaps he had no authority to do so anyway. Poor Christopher! His heart beat until it seemed as if the stranger opposite must hear its throbbing and take warning. If only it were possible to alight from the bus without exciting attention, maybe he and McPhearson could get an officer. He sadly wanted somebody's help and advice. The adventure was one he felt to be too big for him to handle alone. Nevertheless were he even to suggest leaving the car he knew his companion would not only be surprised but would instantly voice aloud his consternation, and then, of course, the man behind the newspaper would hear. Still, something must be done. The bus was whizzing on down the avenue, and at any moment his prey might take flight. A mad resolve formed itself in his mind. "I think we'll have to get out," he said suddenly. "I don't feel well." McPhearson wheeled on him, amazed. "What's the matter?" "My--my--breakfast, I guess. Can you stop the car?" "Do you mean you want to get out right here?" "Yes. I'm dizzy. If I can get some air--" "Not going to faint away, are you?" queried the Scotchman in consternation. "I--no--I--guess not." The kind old clockmaker slipped an arm about his shoulders. "We'll get out at the next stop, sonny. Too bad you feel mean. It's probably the lurching and bumping of this infernal vehicle. You'll be all right when you get outside." Without attracting anything more than passing notice, they found themselves in the street and saw the bus disappear down the avenue. "Feel better?" interrogated McPhearson, anxiously. "I'm all right. There's not a thing the matter with me. The trouble is that the man opposite us was the chap who pinched that ring from Hollings." "Are you sure?" "Pretty sure. At any rate, it's worth tipping off headquarters. Where's there a telephone?"