"But maybe they will, Nickie," Skippy whispered hopefully. "I didn't know the name of this place when I wrote that note. Even I didn't have a chance to hardly get it outa my shoe so I wouldn't a' had a chance...." "An' that old lady," Nickie interposed ruefully. "Holy Smoke, kid, what a chance that was to slip her that note if Devlin hadn't kep' watchin' every move. Just the kinda old lady we was talkin' about too." "What you talkin' about, Nickie, huh?" "That note what you was gonna slip the first old lady you could--remember? An' you'd a' had a swell break if it wasn't for Devlin. He's a hoodoo with that funeral pan o' his." "Gee whiz, Nickie, did I get away with it as swell as that? Gosh, I was scared skinny that maybe Devlin was wise I knocked her pocketbook outa her hand on purpose. _She_ didn't know I did it on purpose." "On purpose--how come?" "Sure, I thought you knew it, Nickie. Gee whiz, was that a break that it opened up an' her stuff ran all over the walk! When I give it back that note was inside." "Kid, that's the pay-off! If that ain't a break." "Well, I did an' how! By now I bet she's read that an' maybe already she's put it in an envelope an' it's on the way to New York." Skippy would not have been able to endure the anxiety of the following days if he had not had faith that the note was well on its way. Hope would soon have fled if he had known that the sweet-voiced old lady had not discovered the note that night, nor for many nights to come. She had gone home after her visit to the doctor and, being confined to her bed for the next two weeks with a bad cold, there had been no occasion to use her "best" pocketbook. Devlin seemed destined to win. CHAPTER XXVII ACCUSATIONS Their hopes flared high, then burned so low that they were beginning to exchange whispers of despair. When a week had passed, then ten days, they looked at each other hopelessly and each knew what was in the other's thoughts without the exchange of a word. Timmy's "nerves" had been nothing compared to Nickie's "jumpiness," as he called it. He fairly quailed whenever Devlin's footsteps sounded. The man kept to his own room, except for three consecutive days when he left the house just before dusk and returned late at night. At those times, the boys hurried to the attic and fell to work at the window bars, only to realize at the end of the week, that it would take more than their inadequate little pot handle to gain freedom. On Wednesday of the following week, Devlin was plainly angry. The boys knew he was thinking of Frost and they seemed to sense that the man's unexpected departure was enraging Devlin more and more. He paced the length of the house, muttering to himself and clenching his big hands until his knuckles cracked. This continued throughout the afternoon.