"There's a drug store just across the street, Christopher. But hold on! What do you mean to do?" The Scotchman's mind was at best a slow-moving machine, and now it appeared to be too stunned to move at all. Sensing that explanation and argument would delay him, Christopher dashed ahead, the clockmaker panting at his heels. Fortunately he knew the number, for he had talked with the inspector before. Fortunately, too, he had a nickel in his pocket. Therefore he called headquarters, admonishing the operator to make haste. A second later a reply came singing over the wire. "Is Mr. Corrigan, the inspector, there?" "Just gone out." "Is Davis, his assistant, in?" "Yes, sir." "Rush him here. I want to speak to him." "Who shall I--" "No matter who. Get him here quick." There must have been something in the tone that carried a command, for almost immediately a weak, panting voice answered: "This--is--Davis, sir." "I'm Christopher Burton, the son of--" "Yes, sir, I get it." "I've left at the corner of Fifth Avenue and West Fifty-seventh Street a bus numbered 1079 that's on its way down town; in it was a man that looked like Stuart. Know who I mean?" "Jove! You bet I do! Well?" "He was togged out in an old brown ulster, worn trousers, and boots that were all splashed with plaster or paint, and he had white hair, a white beard, a slouch hat, and a bag. It may not be he at all, you know; but his hands--say--hello--hello--Davis--hello--the darn operator's cut me off." "Maybe not. More likely Davis hung up the 'phone." "But I wasn't through," declared the boy indignantly. "He'd got all he wanted, I imagine, and had to get to work." "Perhaps so." Christopher, however, was not satisfied. Moreover, now that the excitement of the incident was over and he began to look back on what he had done, it seemed madness. What right had he to turn the whole police force of the city of New York loose on a poor old working man, solely because his hands happened to be white! It was audacious. A pretty kind of a fool he'd feel if he had started them off on a false scent! They would not thank him. He had fumbled the affair from the beginning, and doubtless was continuing to fumble it. All the elation died in his face, and noticing this, McPhearson, who loitered in the meantime at the door of the telephone booth, remarked: "What's the trouble, son?" "If I was only _sure_ it was Stuart." "That's what I was trying to tell you, laddie, when you ran pell-mell in here to call the police. You ought to have made sure before you gave the information." "But how could I?" retorted Christopher irritably. "I couldn't go up to the man and ask him politely whether he was the burglar who took a diamond ring from my father's shop, could I?" The absurdity of the question brought back his good humor. "No. I grant that," McPhearson agreed. "Still you might have proceeded with a grain less speed. I always think an action can bear considering."