“Aw, Inspector,” the Parson whined, “you ain’t pullin’ that stuff on me again, are you? How should I know? Field was one slick guy—he didn’t go around welching on his enemies. No, sir! _I_ wouldn’t know.... He was pretty good to me—got me off on a couple of charges,” he admitted unblushingly. “But I didn’t have no more idea he was here Monday night than—hell, than anything.” The Inspector turned to Madge O’Connell. “How about you, O’Connell?” he asked softly. “My son, Mr. Queen, tells me that on Monday night you confided in him about closing the exit-doors. You didn’t say anything to me about that. What do _you_ know?” The girl returned his stare coolly. “I told you once, Inspector. I haven’t a thing to say.” “And you, William Pusak—” Queen turned to the weazened little bookkeeper. “Do you remember anything now that you forgot Monday night?” Pusak wriggled uncomfortably. “Meant to tell you, Inspector,” he mumbled. “And when I read about it in the papers it came back to me.... As I bent over Mr. Field Monday night I smelled a terrible smell of whiskey. I don’t remember if I told you that before.” “Thank you,” remarked the Inspector dryly, rising. “A very important contribution to our little investigation. You may go, the whole lot of you....” The orangeade-boy, Jess Lynch, looked disappointed. “Don’t you want to talk to me, too, sir?” he asked anxiously. The Inspector smiled despite his abstraction. “Ah, yes. The helpful purveyor of orangeade.... And what have you to say, Jess?” “Well, sir, before this fellow Field came over to my stand to ask for the ginger ale, I happened to notice that he picked up something in the alleyway,” said the boy eagerly. “It was shiny, sort of, but I couldn’t see it clear enough. He put it in his hip-pocket right away.” He concluded triumphantly, glancing about him as if to invite applause. The Inspector seemed interested enough. “What was this shiny object like, Jess?” he inquired. “Might it have been a revolver?” “Revolver? Gosh, I don’t think so,” said the orangeade-boy doubtfully. “It was square, like....” “Might it have been a woman’s purse?” interrupted the Inspector. The boy’s face brightened. “That’s it!” he cried. “I’ll bet that’s what it was. Shined all over, like colored stones.” Queen sighed. “Very good. Lynch,” he said. “You go home now like a good boy.” Silently the gangster, the usherette, Pusak and his feminine charge, and the orangeade-boy rose and departed. Velie accompanied them to the outer door. Sampson waited until they had gone before he took the Inspector to one side. “What’s the matter, Q?” he demanded. “Aren’t things going right?” “Henry, my boy,” smiled the Inspector, “we’ve done as much as mortal brains could. Just a little more time.... I wish—” He did not say what he wished. He grasped Djuna firmly by the arm and bidding Panzer, Neilson, Velie and the District Attorney a placid good-night, left the theatre.