"I confess I’m dazed. It’s perfectly possible that Chapman, who didn’t like his wife, should have fallen in love with the girl, it’s perfectly natural that they should have kept it dark; but that he’s joined with her in a plan to steal Mrs. Janney’s jewels!"—he shook his head staring in front of him—"I can’t get the focus. Price wouldn’t qualify for a Sunday school superintendent, but I can’t seem to see him as a gentleman burglar." "He was mad when he left," I said. "He made a sort of scene." "What’s that?" growled the old man, looking up quick. "He got angry and threatened them. I don’t know just in what way because I’ve only caught it in bits and scraps. But Dixon heard him and told in the village where I picked up an echo of it. He said they’d stolen his child." "Sounds like him—an ugly temper. Try and get exactly what he said if you can." We talked on a while, going back and forth over it like a lawn mower over grass. Then a knock on the door stopped us; a boy put in his head and announced: "Mr. O’Malley’s outside and wants to see Mr. Whitney." Mr. George and I squared round in our chairs with our eyes glued on the doorway. The Chief, slouched down comfortable with his shirt-bosom bulging, looked like a sleepy old bear, but from under the jut of his eyebrows his glance shone as keen as a razor. O’Malley entered, hot and red, his panama in his hand, and that air about him I’ve seen before—a suppressed triumph gleaming out through the cracks. "Well?" says Mr. George, curt and sharp. O’Malley took a chair and mopped his forehead: "There’s no mistake she’s got something up her sleeve. She took the Seventh Avenue car and went downtown until she came to Jefferson Court house, got out there, went a few blocks into the Greenwich Village section and stopped at a house on a small sort of thoroughfare called Gayle Street. I think she let herself in with a key, but I’m not sure. The place is a shady-looking rookery, no porch or steps, door opening right on the sidewalk, three windows to each floor, mansard roof. About ten minutes after she went in, a man came down the street, walking quick, hat low over his eyes—it was Mr. Chapman Price." Mr. George stirred and gave a mutter. The old man, stretching his hand to the cigar box at his elbow, took out a large fat cigar and said: "Price, eh?—Go on." "I thought the lady’d used a key, and I saw plain that he did. The door opened and he went in. I crossed over and looked at the bells. There were nine of them, all with names underneath except the top floor ones. These, the last three of the line, had no names, showing the top floor was vacant.