"That seems to be about all," he said. "I don't think there's anything else." "I'll slip downtown and buy the props." "I'll go and tell Jerry." A thought struck Mr. Crocker. "You'd better tell Jerry to make up, too. He doesn't want the kid recognising him and squealing on him later." Jimmy was lost in admiration of his father's resource. "You think of everything, dad! That wouldn't have occurred to me. You certainly do take to Crime in the most wonderful way. It seems to come naturally to you!" Mr. Crocker smirked modestly. CHAPTER XX CELESTINE IMPARTS INFORMATION Plot is only as strong as its weakest link. The best-laid schemes of mice and men gang agley if one of the mice is a mental defective or if one of the men is a Jerry Mitchell. . . . Celestine, Mrs. Pett's maid--she who was really Maggie O'Toole and whom Jerry loved with a strength which deprived him of even that small amount of intelligence which had been bestowed upon him by Nature--came into the house-keeper's room at about ten o'clock that night. The domestic staff had gone in a body to the moving-pictures, and the only occupant of the room was the new parlourmaid, who was sitting in a hard chair, reading Schopenhauer. Celestine's face was flushed, her dark hair was ruffled, and her eyes were shining. She breathed a little quickly, and her left hand was out of sight behind her back. She eyed the new parlour-maid doubtfully for a moment. The latter was a woman of somewhat unencouraging exterior, not the kind that invites confidences. But Celestine had confidences to bestow, and the exodus to the movies had left her in a position where she could not pick and choose. She was faced with the alternative of locking her secret in her palpitating bosom or of revealing it to this one auditor. The choice was one which no impulsive damsel in like circumstances would have hesitated to make. "Say!" said Celestine. A face rose reluctantly from behind Schopenhauer. A gleaming eye met Celestine's. A second eye no less gleaming glared at the ceiling. "Say, I just been talking to my feller outside," said Celestine with a coy simper. "Say, he's a grand man!" A snort of uncompromising disapproval proceeded from the thin-lipped mouth beneath the eyes. But Celestine was too full of her news to be discouraged. "I'm strong fer Jer!" she said. "Huh?" said the student of Schopenhauer. "Jerry Mitchell, you know. You ain't never met him, have you? Say, he's a grand man!" For the first time she had the other's undivided attention. The new parlour-maid placed her book upon the table. "Uh?" she said. Celestine could hold back her dramatic surprise no longer. Her concealed left hand flashed into view. On the third finger glittered a ring. She gazed at it with awed affection. "Ain't it a beaut!" She contemplated its sparkling perfection for a moment in rapturous silence.